THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


7*5 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


A  MOTLEY 

VILLA  RUBEIN 

THE  ISLAND  PHARISEES 

THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 

THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 


PLAYS 


A  COMMENTARY 


JUSTICE 

A  TRAGEDY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


JUSTICE 

A  TRAGEDY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  B» 
JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

All  rights  reserved 
Published  October,  igio 


PR 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

G?  I  -2J 

JAMES  How  )     ,. 

WALTER  How,  his  son  ) 

ROBERT  COKESON,  their  managing  clerk 

WILLIAM  FALDER,  their  junior  clerk 

SWEEDLE,  their  office-boy 

WISTER,  a  detective 

COWLEY,  a  cashier 

MR.  JUSTICE  FLOYD,  a  judge 

HAROLD  CLEAVER,  an  old  advocate 

HECTOR  FROME,  a  young  advocate 

CAPTAIN  DANSON,  V.C.,  a  prison  governor 

THE  REV.  HUGH  MILLER,  a  prison  chaplain 

EDWARD  CLEMENTS,  a  prison  doctor 

WOODER,  a  chief  warder 

MOANEY      \ 

CLIPTON     >  convicts 

O'CLEARY  / 

RUTH  HONEYWILL,  a  woman 

A   NUMBER    OF   BARRISTERS,    SOLICITORS,    SPECTATORS, 

USHERS,   REPORTERS,   JURYMEN,   WARDERS,   AND 

PRISONERS 

TIME:  The  Present. 

ACT  I.  The  office  of  James  and  Walter  How.     Morning. 

July. 

ACT  II.  Assizes.     Afternoon.     October. 
ACT  III.  A  prison.     December. 

SCENE  I.  The  Governor's  office. 

SCENE  II.  A  corridor. 

SCENE  III.  A  cell. 

ACT  IV.  The  office  of  James  and  Walter  How.     Morning. 
March,  two  years  later. 


757844 


CAST  OF  THE  FIRST  PRODUCTION 

AT  THE 

DUKE  OF  YORK'S  THEATRE,  FEBRUARY  21,  1910 

James  How  MR.  SYDNEY  VALENTINE 

Walter  How  MR.  CHARLES  MAUDE 

Cokeson  MR.  EDMUND  GWENN 

Falder  MR.  DENNIS  EADIE 

The  Office-boy  MR.  GEORGE  HERSEE 

The  Detective  MR.  LESLIE  CARTER 

The  Cashier  MR.  C.  E.  VERNON 

The  Judge  MR.  DION  BOUCICAULT 

The  Old  Advocate  MR.  OSCAR  ADYE 

The  Young  Advocate  MR.  CHARLES  BRYANT 

The  Prison  Governor  MR.  GRENDON  BENTLEY 

The  Prison  Chaplain  MR.  HUBERT  HARBEN 

The  Prison  Doctor  MR.  LEWIS  CASSON 

Wooder  MR.  FREDERICK  LLOYD 

Moaney  MR.  ROBERT  PATEMAN 

Clipton  MR.  O.  P.  HEGGIE 

O'Cleary  MR.  WHITFORD  KANE 

Ruth  Honeywill  Miss  EDYTH  OLIVE 


ACT  I 

The  scene  is  the  managing  clerk's  room,  at  the  offices  of 
JAMES  AND  WALTER  How,  on  a  July  morning. 
The  room  is  old-fashioned,  furnished  with  well-worn 
mahogany  and  leather,  and  lined  with  tin  boxes  and 
estate  plans.  It  has  three  doors.  Two  of  them 
are  close  together  in  the  centre  of  a  wall.  One  of 
these  two  doors  leads  to  the  outer  office,  which  is 
only  divided  from  the  managing  clerk's  room  by  a 
partition  of  wood  and  clear  glass;  and  when  the 
door  into  this  outer  office  is  opened  there  can  be 
seen  the  wide  outer  door  leading  out  on  to  the  stone 
stairway  of  the  building.  The  other  of  these  two 
centre  doors  leads  to  the  junior  clerk's  room.  The 
third  door  is  that  leading  to  the  partners'  room. 

The  managing  clerk,  COKESON,  is  sitting  at  his  table 
adding  up  figures  in  a  pass-book,  and  murmuring 
their  numbers  to  himself.  He  is  a  man  of  sixty, 
wearing  spectacles;  rather  short,  with  a  bald  head, 
and  an  honest,  pug-dog  face.  He  is  dressed  in  a 
well-worn  black  frock-coat  and  pepper-and-salt 
trousers. 

COKESON.     And   five's   twelve,   and   three — fifteen, 
nineteen,  twenty-three,  thirty-two,  forty-one — and  carry 


2  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

four.  [He  ticks  the  page,  and  goes  on  murmuring] 
Five,  seven,  twelve,  seventeen,  twenty-four  and  nine, 
thirty-three,  thirteen  and  cany  one. 

He  again  makes  a  tick.  The  outer  office 
door  is  opened,  and  SWEEDLE,  the  office-boy, 
appears,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  He 
is  a  pale  youth  of  sixteen,  with  spiky  hair. 

COKESON.  [With  grumpy  expectation]  And  carry 
one. 

SWEEDLE.  There's  a  party  wants  to  see  Falder,  Mr. 
Cokeson. 

COKESON.  Five,  nine,  sixteen,  twenty-one,  twenty- 
nine — and  carry  two.  Sent  him  to  Morris's.  What 
name? 

SWEEDLE.  Honeywill. 

COKESON.  What's  his  business? 

SWEEDLE.  It's  a  woman. 

COKESON.  A  lady  ? 

SWEEDLE.  No,  a  person. 

COKESON.  Ask  her  in.  Take  this  pass-book  to 
Mr.  James.  [He  closes  the  pass-book. 

SWEEDLE.  [Reopening  the  door]  Will  you  come  in, 
please? 

RUTH  HONEYWILL  comes  in.  She  is  a  tall 
woman,  twenty-six  years  old,  unpreten- 
tiously dressed,  with  black  hair  and  eyes, 
and  an  ivory-white,  clear-cut  face.  She 
stands  very  still,  having  a  natural  dignity  of 
pose  and  gesture. 


*cr  i  JUSTICE  3 

SWEEDLE  goes  out  into  the  partners'  room  with 
the  pass-book. 

COKESON.  [Looking  round  at  RUTH]  The  young 
man's  out.  [Suspiciously]  State  your  business,  please. 

RUTH.  [Who  speaks  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  and 
with  a  slight  West-Country  accent]  It's  a  personal 
matter,  sir. 

COKESON.  We  don't  allow  private  callers  here. 
Will  you  leave  a  message  ? 

RUTH.  I'd  rather  see  him,  please. 

She  narrows  her  dark  eyes  and  gives  him  a 
honeyed  look. 

COKESON.  [Expanding]  It's  all  against  the  rules. 
Suppose  I  had  my  friends  here  to  see  me!  It'd  never 
do! 

RUTH.  No,  sir. 

COKESON.  [A  little  taken  aback]  Exactly!  And  here 
you  are  wanting  to  see  a  junior  clerk! 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir;  I  must  see  him. 

COKESON.  [Turning  full  round  to  her  with  a  sort  of 
outraged  interest]  But  this  is  a  lawyer's  office.  Go  to 
his  private  address. 

RUTH.  He's  not  there. 

COKESON.  [Uneasy]     Are  you  related  to  the  party  ? 

RUTH.  No,  sir. 

COKESON.  [In  real  embarrassment]  I  don't  know 
what  to  say.  It's  no  affair  of  the  office. 

RUTH.  But  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

COKESON.  Dear  me!  I  can't  tell  you  that. 


4  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

SWEEDLE  comes  back.  He  crosses  to  the  outer 
office  and  passes  through  into  it,  with  a 
quizzical  look  at  COKESON,  carefully  leaving 
the  door  an  inch  or  two  open. 

COKESON.  [Fortified  by  this  look]  This  won't  do, 
you  know,  this  won't  do  at  all.  Suppose  one  of  the 
partners  came  in! 

An  incoherent  knocking  and  chuckling  is  heard 

from  the  outer  door  of  the  outer  office. 
SWEEDLE.  [Putting  his  head  in]  There's  some  chil- 
dren outside  here. 

RUTH.  They're  mine,  please. 
SWEEDLE.  Shall  I  hold  them  in  check? 
RUTH.  They're  quite  small,  sir.     [She  takes  a  step 
towards  COKESON. 

COKESON.  You  mustn't  take  up  his  time  in  office 
hours;  we're  a  clerk  short  as  it  is. 

RUTH.  It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
COKESON.  [Again  outraged]  Life  and  death! 
SWEEDLE.  Here  is  Falder. 

FALDER  has  entered  through  the  outer  office. 
He  is  a  pale,  good-looking  young  man, 
with  quick,  rather  scared  eyes.  He  moves 
towards  the  door  of  the  clerks'  office,  and 
stands  there  irresolute. 

COKESON.  Well,  I'll  give  you  a  minute.  It's  not 
regular. 

Taking  up  a  bundle  of  papers,  he  goes  out  into 
the  partners'  room. 


ACT    I 


JUSTICE  5 


RUTH.  [In  a  low,  hurried  voice]  He's  on  the  drink     \ 
again,   Will.     He  tried  to  cut  my  throat  last  night.      / 
I  came  out  with  the  children  before  he  was  awake.    / 
I  went  round  to  you 

FALDER.  I've  changed  my  digs. 

RUTH.  Is  it  all  ready  for  to-night  ? 

FALDER.  I've  got  the  tickets.  Meet  me  11.45  at 
the  booking  office.  For  God's  sake  don't  forget  we're 
man  and  wife!  [Looking  at  her  with  tragic  intensity] 
Ruth! 

RUTH.  You're  not  afraid  of  going,  are  you  ? 

FALDER.  Have  you  got  your  things,  and  the  chil- 
dren's ? 

RUTH.  Had  to  leave  them,  for  fear  of  waking 
Honey  will,  all  but  one  bag.  I  can't  'go  near  home 
again. 

FALDER.  [Wincing]  All  that  money  gone  for  nothing. 
How  much  must  you  have  ? 

RUTH.  Six  pounds — I  could  do  with  that,  I  think. 

FALDER.  Don't  give  away  where  we're  going.  [As 
if  to  himself]  When  I  get  out  there  I  mean  to  forget 
it  all. 

RUTH.  If  you're  sorry,  say  so.  I'd  sooner  he  killed 
me  than  take  you  against  your  will. 

FALDER.  [With  a  queer  smile]  We've  got  to  go. 
I  don't  care;  I'll  have  you. 

RUTH.  You've  just  to  say;  it's  not  too  late. 

FALDER.  It  is  too  late.  Here's  seven  pounds. 
Booking  office — 11.45  to-night.  If  you  weren't  what 
you  are  to  me,  Ruth ! 


6  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

RUTH.  Kiss  me! 

They  cling  together  passionately,  then  fly  apart 
just  as  COKESON  re-enters  the  room.  RUTH 
turns  and  goes  out  through  the  outer  office. 
COKESON  advances  deliberately  to  his  chair 
and  seats  himself. 

COKESON.  This  isn't  right,  Falder. 
FALDER.  It  shan't  occur  again,  sir. 
COKESON.  It's  an  improper  use  of  these  premises. 
FALDER.  Yes,  sir. 

COKESON.  You  quite  understand — the  party  was 
in  some  distress;  and,  having  children  with  her,  I 
allowed  my  feelings [He  opens  a  drawer  and  pro- 
duces from  it  a  tract]  Just  take  this!  "Purity  in  the 
Home."  It's  a  well-written  thing. 

FALDER.  [Taking  it,  with  a  peculiar  expression] 
Thank  you,  sir. 

COKESON.  And  look  here,  Falder,  before  Mr.  Walter 
comes,  have  you  finished  up  that  cataloguing  Davis 
had  in  hand  before  he  left  ? 

FALDER.  I  shall  have  done  with  it  to-morrow,  sir — 
for  good. 

COKESON.  It's  over  a  week  since  Davis  went.  Now 
it  won't  do,  Falder.  You're  neglecting  your  work 
for  private  life.  I  shan't  mention  about  the  party 

having  called,  but 

FALDER.  [Passing  into  his  room]  Thank  you,  sir. 
COKESON   stares  at  the  door  through  which 
FALDER  has  gone  out;  then  shakes  his  head, 
and  is  just  settling  down  to  write,   when 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  7 

WALTER  How  comes  in  through  the  outer 
office.  He  is  a  rather  refined-looking  man 
of  thirty-five,  with  a  pleasant,  almost  apolo- 
getic voice. 

WALTER.  Good-morning,  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  Morning,  Mr.  Walter. 

WALTER.  My  father  here  ? 

COKESON.  [Always  with  a  certain  patronage  as  to  a 
young  man  who  might  be  doing  better]  Mr.  James  has 
been  here  since  eleven  o'clock. 

WALTER.  I've  been  in  to  see  the  pictures,  at  the 
Guildhall. 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him  as  though  this  were 
exactly  what  was  to  be  expected]  Have  you  now — ye-es. 
This  lease  of  Boulter's — am  I  to  send  it  to  counsel  ? 

WALTER.  What  does  my  father  say? 

COKESON.  'Aven't  bothered  him. 

WALTER.  Well,  we  can't  be  too  careful. 

COKESON.  It's  such  a  little  thing — hardly  worth 
the  fees.  I  thought  you'd  do  it  yourself. 

WALTER.  Send  it,  please.  I  don't  want  the  re- 
sponsibility. 

COKESON.  [With  an  indescribable  air  of  compassion] 
Just  as  you  like.  This  "right-of-way"  case — we've 
got  'em  on  the  deeds. 

WALTER.  I  know;  but  the  intention  was  obviously 
to  exclude  that  bit  of  common  ground. 

COKESON.  We  needn't  worry  about  that.  We're 
the  right  side  of  the  law. 

WALTER.  I  don't  like  it. 


8  JUSTICE  ACT! 

COKESON.  [With  an  indulgent  smile]  We  shan't  want 
to  set  ourselves  up  against  the  law.  Your  father 
wouldn't  waste  his  time  doing  that. 

As  he  speaks  JAMES  How  comes  in  from  the 
partners'  room.  He  is  a  shortish  man,  with 
white  side-whiskers,  plentiful  grey  hair, 
shrewd  eyes,  and  gold  pince-nez. 

JAMES.  Morning,  Walter. 

WALTER.  How  are  you,  father  ? 

COKESON.  {Looking  down  his  nose  at  the  papers  in 
his  hand  as  though  deprecating  their  size]  I'll  just  take 
Boulter's  lease  in  to  young  Falder  to  draft  the  in- 
structions. [He  goes  out  into  FALDER'S  room. 

WALTER.  About  that  right-of-way  case  ? 

JAMES.  Oh,  well,  we  must  go  forward  there.  I 
thought  you  told  me  yesterday  the  firm's  balance 
was  over  four  hundred. 

WALTER.  So  it  is. 

JAMES.  [Holding  out  the  pass-book  to  his  son]  Three 
— five — one,  no  recent  cheques.  Just  get  me  out  the 
cheque-book. 

WALTER  goes  to  a  cupboard,  unlocks  a  drawer, 
and  produces  a  cheque-book. 

JAMES.  Tick  the  pounds  in  the  counterfoils.  Five, 
fifty-four,  seven,  five,  twenty-eight,  twenty,  ninety, 
eleven,  fifty-two,  seventy-one.  Tally  ? 

WALTER.  [Nodding]  Can't  understand.  Made  sure 
it  was  over  four  hundred. 

JAMES.  Give  me   the  cheque-book.  [He   takes   the 


ACT i  JUSTICE  9 

cheque-book  and  cons  the  counterfoils]  What's  this 
ninety  ? 

WALTER.  Who  drew  it  ? 

JAMES.  You. 

WALTER.  [Taking  the  cheque-book]  July  7th  ?  That's 
the  day  I  went  down  to  look  over  the  Trenton  Estate 
— last  Friday  week;  I  came  back  on  the  Tuesday, 
you  remember.  But  look  here,  father,  it  was  nine  I 
drew  a  cheque  for.  Five  guineas  to  Smithers  and  my 
expenses.  It  just  covered  all  but  half  a  crown. 

JAMES.  [Gravely]  Let's  look  at  that  ninety  cheque. 
[He  sorts  the  cheque  out  from  the  bundle  in  the  pocket  of 
the  pass-book]  Seems  all  right.  There's  no  nine  here. 
This  is  bad.  Who  cashed  that  nine-pound  cheque  ? 

WALTER.  [Puzzled  and  pained]  Let's  see!  I  was 
finishing  Mrs.  Reddy's  will — only  just  had  time;  yes 
— I  gave  it  to  Cokeson. 

JAMES.  Look  at  that  t  y  :  that  yours  ? 

WALTER.  [After  consideration]  My  y's  curl  back  a 
little;  this  doesn't. 

JAMES.  [As  COKESON  re-enters  from  FALDER'S  room] 
We  must  ask  him.  Just  come  here  and  carry  your 
mind  back  a  bit,  Cokeson.  D'you  remember  cashing  a 
cheque  for  Mr.  Walter  last  Friday  week — the  day  he 
went  to  Trenton  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es.     Nine  pounds. 

JAMES.  Look  at  this.          [Handing  him  the  cheque. 

COKESON.  No!  Nine  pounds.  My  lunch  was  just 
coming  in;  and  of  course  I  like  it  hot;  I  gave  the  cheque 
to  Davis  to  run  round  to  the  bank.  He  brought  it 


10  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

back,  all  gold — you  remember,  Mr.  Walter,  you 
wanted  some  silver  to  pay  your  cab.  [With  a  certain 
contemptuous  compassion]  Here,  let  me  see.  You've 
got  the  wrong  cheque. 

He   takes    cheque-book    and   pass-book    from 
WALTER. 

WALTER.  Afraid  not. 

COKESON.  [Having  seen  for  himself]  It's  funny. 

JAMES.  You  gave  it  to  Davis,  and  Davis  sailed  for 
Australia  on  Monday.  Looks  black,  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  [Puzzled  and  upset]  Why  this'd  be  a 
felony!  No,  no!  there's  some  mistake. 

JAMES.  I  hope  so. 

COKESON.  There's  never  been  anything  of  that  sort 
in  the  office  the  twenty-nine  years  I've  been  here. 

JAMES.  [Looking  at  cheque  and  counterfoil]  This  is  a 
very  clever  bit  of  work;  a  warning  to  you  not  to  leave 
space  after  your  figures,  Walter. 

WALTER.  [Vexed]  Yes,  I  know — I  was  in  such  a 
tearing  hurry  that  afternoon. 

COKESON.  [Suddenly]  This  has  upset  me. 

JAMES.  The  counterfoil  altered  too — very  deliberate 
piece  of  swindling.  What  was  Davis's  ship  ? 

WALTER.  City  of  Rangoon. 

JAMES.  We  ought  to  wire  and  have  him  arrested 
at  Naples;  he  can't  be  there  yet. 

COKESON.  His  poor  young  wife.  I  liked  the  young 
man.  Dear,  oh  dear!  In  this  office! 

WALTER.  Shall  I  go  to  the  bank  and  ask  the 
cashier  ? 


ACT    I 


JUSTICE  11 


JAMES., [Grimly]  Bring  him  round  here.  And  ring 
up  Scotland  Yard. 

WALTER.  Really? 

He  goes  out  through  the  oilier  office.  JAMES 
paces  the  room.  He  stops  and  looks  at 
COKESON,  who  is  disconsolately  rubbing  the 
knees  of  his  trousers. 

JAMES.  Well,  Cokeson !  There's  something  in  char- 
acter, isn't  there  ? 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him  over  his  spectacles]  I  don't 
quite  take  you,  sir. 

JAMES.  Your   story   would   sound   d d   thin   to 

any  one  who  didn't  know  you. 

COKESON.  Ye-es!  [He  laughs.  Then  with  sudden 
gravity]  I'm  sorry  for  that  young  man.  I  feel  it  as 
if  it  was  my  own  son,  Mr.  James. 

JAMES.  A  nasty  business! 

COKESON.  It  unsettles  you.  All  goes  on  regular, 
and  then  a  thing  like  this  happens.  Shan't  relish 
my  lunch  to-day. 

JAMES.  As  bad  as  that,  Cokeson  ? 

COKESON.  It  makes  you  think.  [Confidentially]  He 
must  have  had  temptation. 

JAMES.  Not  so  fast.  We  haven't  convicted  him 
yet. 

COKESON.  I'd  sooner  have  lost  a  month's  salary 
than  had  this  happen.  [He  broods. 

JAMES.  I  hope  that  fellow  will  hurry  up. 

COKESON.  [Keeping  things  pleasant  for  the  cashier] 
It  isn't  fifty  yards,  Mr.  James.  He  won't  be  a  minute. 


12  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

JAMES.  The  idea  of  dishonesty  about  this  office — 
it  hits  me  hard,  Cokeson. 

He  goes  towards  the  door  of  the  partners'  room. 

SWEEDLE.  [Entering  quietly,  to  COKESON  in  a  low 
voice]  She's  popped  up  again,  sir — something  she 
forgot  to  say  to  Falder. 

COKESON.  [Roused  from  his  abstraction]  Eh?  Im- 
possible. Send  her  away! 

JAMES.  What's  that  ? 

COKESON.  Nothing,  Mr.  James.  A  private  matter. 
Here,  I'll  come  myself.  [He  goes  into  the  outer  office 
as  JAMES  passes  into  the  partners'  room]  Now,  you 
really  mustn't — we  can't  have  anybody  just  now. 

RUTH.  Not  for  a  minute,  sir? 

COKESON.  Reely!  Reely!  I  can't  have  it.  If 
you  want  him,  wait  about;  he'll  be  going  out  for  his 
lunch  directly. 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir. 

WALTER,   entering   with   the   cashier,  passes 
RUTH  as  she  leaves  the  outer  office. 

COKESON.  [To  the  cashier,  who  resembles  a  sedentary 
dragoon]  Good-morning.  [To  WALTER]  Your  father's 
in  there. 

WALTER  crosses  and  goes  into  the  partners' 
room. 

COKESON.  It's  a  nahsty,  unpleasant  little  matter, 
Mr.  Cowley.  I'm  quite  ashamed  to  have  to  trouble 
you. 

COWLEY.  I  remember  the  cheque  quite  well.  [As 
if  it  were  a  liver]  Seemed  in  perfect  order. 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  13 

COKESON.  Sit  down,  won't  you  ?  I'm  not  a  sensitive 
man,  but  a  thing  like  this  about  the  place — it's  not 
nice.  I  like  people  to  be  open  and  jolly  together. 

COWLEY.  Quite  so. 

COKESON.  [Buttonholing  him,  and  glancing  towards 
the  partners'  room]  Of  course  he's  a  young  man.  I've 
told  him  about  it  before  now — leaving  space  after  his 
figures,  but  he  will  do  it. 

COWLEY.  ^1  should  remember  the  person's  face — 
quite  a  youth. 

COKESON.  I  don't  think  we  shall  be  able  to  show 
him  to  you,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 

JAMES  and  WALTER  have  come  back  from  the 
partners'  room. 

JAMES.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Cowley.  You've  seen 
my  son  and  myself,  you've  seen  Mr.  Cokeson,  and 
you've  seen  Sweedle,  my  office-boy.  It  was  none  of 
us,  I  take  it. 

The  cashier  shakes  his  head  with  a  smile. 

JAMES.  Be  so  good  as  to  sit  there.  Cokeson, 
engage  Mr.  Cowley  in  conversation,  will  you  ? 

He  goes  towards  FALDER'S  room. 

COKESON.  Just  a  word,  Mr.  James. 

JAMES.  Well? 

COKESON.  You  don't  want  to  upset  the  young  man 
in  there,  do  you  ?  He's  a  nervous  young  feller. 

JAMES.  This  must  be  thoroughly  cleared  up,  Cokeson, 
for  the  sake  of  Falder's  name,  to  say  nothing  of  yours. 

COKESON.     [With  some  dignity]  That'll  look  after 


14  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

itself,   sir.     He's   been   upset   once   this   morning;    I 
don't  want  him  startled  again. 

JAMES.  It's  a  matter  of  form;  but  I  can't  stand  upon 
niceness  over  a  thing  like  this — too  serious.  [Just 
talk  to  Mr.  Cowley. 

He  opens  the  door  of  FALDER'S  room. 
JAMES.  Bring  in  the  papers  in  Boulter's  lease,  will 
you,  Falder? 

COKESON.  [Bursting  into  voice]  Do  you  keep  dogs  ? 
The  cashier,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  door,  does 

not  answer. 

COKESON.  You  haven't  such  a  thing  as  a  bulldog 
pup  you  could  spare  me,  I  suppose  ? 

At  the  look  on  the  cashier's  face  his  jaw  drops, 
and  he  turns  to  see  FALDER  standing  in  the 
doorway,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  COWLEY, 
like  the  eyes  of  a  rabbit  fastened  on  a 
snake. 

FALDER.  [Advancing  with  the  papers]  Here  they 
are,  sir! 

JAMES.  [Taking  them]  Thank  you. 
FALDER.  Do  you  want  me,  sir  ? 
JAMES.  No,  thanks! 

FALDER  turns  and  goes  back  into  his  own 
room.  As  he  shuts  the  door  JAMES  gives  the 
cashier  an  interrogative  look,  and  the  cashier 
nods. 

JAMES.  Sure  ?    This  isn't  as  we  suspected. 
COWLEY.  Quite.     He  knew  me.     I  suppose  he  can't 
slip  out  of  that  room  ? 


ACT    I 


JUSTICE  15 


COKESON.  [Gloomily]  There's  only  the  window — a 
whole  floor  and  a  basement. 

The  door  of  FALDER'S  room  is  quietly  opened, 
and  FALDER,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  moves 
towards  the  door  of  the  outer  office. 

JAMES.  [Quietly]  Where  are  you  going,  Falder  ? 

FALDER.  To  have  my  lunch,  sir. 

JAMES.  Wait  a  few  minutes,  would  you  ?  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  about  this  lease. 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir.  [He  goes  back  into  his  room. 

COWLEY.  If  I'm  wanted,  I  can  swear  that's  the 
young  man  who  cashed  the  cheque.  It  was  the  last 
cheque  I  handled  that  morning  before  my  lunch. 
These  are  the  numbers  of  the  notes  he  had.  [He  puts 
a  slip  of  paper  on  the  table;  then,  brushing  his  hat  round] 
Good-morning! 

JAMES.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Cow  ley! 

COWLEY.  [To  COKESON]  Good- morning. 

COKESON.  [With  stupefaction]  Good-morning. 

The  cashier  goes  out  through  the  outer  office. 
COKESON  sits  down  in  his  chair,  as  though 
it  were  the  only  place  left  in  the  morass  of  his 
feelings. 

WALTER.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
JAMES.  Have   him  in.     Give  me  the   cheque  and 
the  counterfoil. 

COKESON.  I   don't   understand.     I   thought   young 

Davis 

JAMES.  We  shall  see. 


16  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

WALTER.  One  moment,  father:  have  you  thought 
it  out? 

JAMES.  Call  him  in! 

COKESON.  [Rising  with  difficulty  and  opening  FAL- 
DER'S  door;  hoarsely]  Step  in  here  a  minute. 

FALDER  comes  in. 

FALDER.  [Impassively]  Yes,  sir? 

JAMES.  [Turning  to  him  suddenly  with  the  cheque 
held  out]  You  know  this  cheque,  Falder  ? 

FALDER.  No,  sir. 

JAMES.  Look  at  it.     You  cashed  it  last  Friday  week. 

FALDER.  Oh!  yes,  sir;  that  one — Davis  gave  it  me. 

JAMES.  I  know.     And  you  gave  Davis  the  cash  ? 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir. 

JAMES.  When  Davis  gave  you  the  cheque  was  it 
exactly  like  this  ? 

FALDER.  Yes,  I  think  so,  sir. 

JAMES.  You  know  that  Mr.  Walter  drew  that  cheque 
for  nine  pounds  ? 

FALDER.  No,  sir — ninety. 

JAMES.  Nine,  Falder. 

FALDER.  [Faintly]  I  don't  understand,  sir. 

JAMES.  The  suggestion,  of  course,  is  that  the  cheque 
was  altered;  whether  by  you  or  Davis  is  the  question. 

FALDER.  I — I 

COKESON.  Take  your  time,  take  your  time. 

FALDER.  [Regaining  his  impassivity]  Not  by  me,  sir. 

JAMES.  The  cheque  was  handed  to  Cokeson  by  Mr. 
Walter  at  one  o'clock;  we  know  that  because  Mr. 
Cokeson's  lunch  had  just  arrived. 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  17 

COKESON.  I  couldn't  leave  it. 

JAMES.  Exactly;  he  therefore  gave  the  cheque  to 
Davis.  It  was  cashed  by  you  at  1.15.  We  know 
that  because  the  cashier  recollects  it  for  the  last  cheque 
he  handled  before  his  lunch. 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir,  Davis  gave  it  to  me  because 
some  friends  were  giving  him  a  farewell  luncheon. 

JAMES.  [Puzzled]  You  accuse  Davis,  then  ? 

FALDER.  I  don't  know,  sir — it's  very  funny. 

WALTER,  who  has  come  close  to  his  father,  says 
something  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 

JAMES.  Davis  was  not  here  again  after  that  Saturday, 
was  he  ? 

COKESON.  [Anxious  to  be  of  assistance  to  the  young 
man,  and  seeing  faint  signs  of  their  all  being  jolly  once     ) 
more]  No,  he  sailed  on  the  Monday. 

JAMES.  Was  he,  Falder? 

FALDER.  [Very  faintly]  No,  sir. 

JAMES.  Very  well,  then,  how  do  you  account  for 
the  fact  that  this  nought  was  added  to  the  nine  in 
the  counterfoil  on  or  after  Tuesday? 

COKESON.  [Surprised]  How's  that  ? 

FALDER  gives  a  sort  of  lurch;  he  tries  to  putt 
himself  together,  but  he  has  gone  all  to 
pieces. 

JAMES.  [Very  grimly]  Out,  I'm  afraid,  Cokeson. 
The  cheque-book  remained  in  Mr.  Walter's  pocket 
till  he  came  back  from  Trenton  on  Tuesday  morning. 
In  the  face  of  this,  Falder,  do  you  still  deny  that  you 
altered  both  cheque  and  counterfoil  ? 


18  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

FALDER.  No,  sir — no,  Mr.  How.  I  did  it,  sir;  I 
did  it. 

COKESON.  [Succumbing  to  his  feelings]  Dear,  dear! 
what  a  thing  to  do! 

FALDER.  I  wanted  the  money  so  badly,  sir.  I 
didn't  know  what  I  was  doing. 

COKESON.  However  such  a  thing  could  have  come 
into  your  head! 

FALDER.  [Grasping  at  the  words]  I  can't  think, 
sir,  really!  It  was  just  a  minute  of  madness. 

JAMES.  A  long  minute,  Falder.  [Tapping  the 
counterfoil]  Four  days  at  least. 

FALDER.  Sir,  I  swear  I  didn't  know  what  I'd  done 
till  afterwards,  and  then  I  hadn't  the  pluck.  Oh! 
sir,  look  over  it!  I'll  pay  the  money  back — I  will,  I 
promise. 

JAMES.  Go  into  your  room. 

FALDER,  with  a  swift  imploring  look,  goes  back 
into  his  room.     There  is  silence. 

JAMES.  About  as  bad  a  case  as  there  could  be. 

COKESON.  To  break  the  law  like  that — in  here! 

WALTER.  What's  to  be  done  ? 

JAMES.  Nothing  for  it.     Prosecute. 

WALTER.  It's  his  first  offence. 

JAMES.  [Shaking  his  head}  I've  grave  doubts  of 
that.  Too  neat  a  piece  of  swindling  altogether. 

COKESON.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  was 
tempted. 

JAMES.  Life's  one  long  temptation,  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  Ye-es,    but    I'm    speaking   of   the   flesh 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  19 

and  the  devil,  Mr.  James.  There  was  a  woman  come 
to  see  him  this  morning. 

WALTER.  The  woman  we  passed  as  we  came  in 
just  now.  Is  it  his  wife  ? 

COKESON.  No,  no  relation.  [Restraining  what  in 
jollier  circumstances  would  have  been  a  wink]  A  married 
person,  though. 

WALTER.  How  do  you  know  ? 

COKESON.  Brought  her  children.  [Scandalised] 
There  they  were  outside  the  office. 

JAMES.  A  real  bad  egg. 

WALTER.  I  should  like  to  give  him  a  chance. 

JAMES.  I  can't  forgive  him  for  the  sneaky  way  he 
went  to  work — counting  on  our  suspecting  young 
Davis  if  the  matter  came  to  light.  It  was  the  merest 
accident  the  cheque-book  stayed  in  your  pocket. 

WALTER.  It  must  have  been  the  temptation  of  a 
moment.  He  hadn't  time. 

JAMES.  A  man  doesn't  succumb  like  that  in  a  moment, 
if  he's  a  clean  mind  and  habits.  He's  rotten;  got  the 
eyes  of  a  man  who  can't  keep  his  hands  off  when  there's 
money  about. 

WALTER.  [Dryly]  We  hadn't  noticed  that  before. 

JAMES.  [Brushing  the  remark  aside]  I've  seen  lots 
of  those  fellows  in  my  time.  No  doing  anything  with 
them  except  to  keep  'em  out  of  harm's  way.  They've 
got  a  blind  spot. 

WALTER.  It's  penal  servitude. 

COKESON.  They're  nahsty  places — prisons. 

JAMES.  [Hesitating]  I   don't   see   how   it's   possible 


20  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

to  spare  him.     Out  of  the  question  to  keep  him  in 
this  office — honesty's  the  sine  qua  non. 

COKESON.  [Hypnotised]  Of  course  it  is. 

JAMES.  Equally  out  of  the  question  to  send  him 
out  amongst  people  who've  no  knowledge  of  his  char- 
acter.    One  must_think  of  society. 
-^WALTERnSut  to  brand  him  like  this  ? 

JAMES.  If  it  had  been  a  straightforward  case  I'd 
give  him  another  chance.  It's  far  from  that.  He 
has  dissolute  habits. 

COKESON.  I  didn't  say  that — extenuating  circum- 
stances. 

JAMES.  Same  thing.  He's  gone  to  work  in  the 
most  cold-blooded  way  to  defraud  his  employers, 
and  cast  the  blame  on  an  innocent  man.  If  that's 
not  a  case  for  the  law  to  take  its  course,  I  don't  know 
what  is. 

WALTER.  For  the  sake  of  his  future,  though. 

JAMES.  [Sarcastically]  According  to  you,  no  one 
would  ever  prosecute. 

WALTER.  [Nettled]  I  hate  the  idea  of  it. 

COKESON.  That's  rather  ex  parte,  Mr.  Walter!  We 
must  have  protection. 

JAMES.  This  is  degenerating  into  talk. 

He  moves  towards  the  partners'  room. 

WALTER.  Put  yourself  in  his  place,  father. 

JAMES.  You  ask  too  much  of  me. 

WALTER.  We  can't  possibly  tell  the  pressure  there 
was  on  him. 

JAMES.  You  may  depend  on  it,  my  boy,  if  a  man  is 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  21 

going  to  do  this  sort  of  thing  he'll  do  it,  pressure  or 
no  pressure;  if  he  isn't  nothing'll  make  him. 

WALTER.  He'll  never  do  it  again. 

COKESON.  [Fatuously]  S'pose  I  were  to  have  a  talk 
with  him.  We  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  the  young 
man. 

JAMES.  That'll  do,  Cokeson.  I've  made  up  my 
mind.  [He  passes  into  the  partners'  room. 

COKESON.  [After  a  doubtful  moment]  We  must  ex- 
cuse your  father.  I  don't  want  to  go  against  your 
father;  if  he  thinks  it  right. 

WALTER.  Confound  it,  Cokeson!  why  don't  you 
back  me  up  ?  You  know  you  feel 

COKESON.  [On  his  dignity]  I  really  can't  say  what 
I  feel. 

WALTER.  We  shall  regret  it. 

COKESON.  He  must  have  known  what  he  was 
doing. 

WALTER.  [Bitterly]  "The  quality  of  mercy  is  not 
strained." 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him  askance]  Come,  come,  Mr. 
Walter.  We  must  try  and  see  it  sensible. 

SWEEDLE.  [Entering  with  a  tray]  Your  lunch,  sir. 

COKESON.  Put  it  down! 

While  SWEEDLE  is  putting  it  down  on  COKE- 
SON'S  table,  the  detective,  WISTER,  enters  the 
outer  office,  and,  finding  no  one  there,  comes 
to  the  inner  doorway.  He  is  a  square, 
medium-sized  man,  clean-shaved,  in  a  ser- 
viceable blue  serge  suit  and  strong  boots. 


22  JUSTICE  ACT  i 

WISTER.  [To  WALTER]  From  Scotland  Yard,  sir. 
Detective-Sergeant  Wister. 

WALTER.  [Askance]  Very  well!  I'll  speak  to  my 
father. 

He  goes  into  the  partners1  room.     JAMES  enters. 

JAMES.  Morning!  [In  answer  to  an  appealing  gesture 
from  COKESON]  I'm  sorry;  I'd  stop  short  of  this  if  I 
felt  I  could.  Open  that  door.  [SWEEDLE,  wondering 
and  scared,  opens  it]  Come  here,  Mr.  Falder. 

As  FALDER  comes  shrinkingly  out,  the  detective, 
in  obedience  to  a  sign  from  JAMES,  slips  his 
hand  out  and  grasps  his  arm. 

FALDER.  [Recoiling]  Oh!  no, — oh!  no! 
WISTER.  Come,  come,  there's  a  good  lad. 
JAMES.  I  charge  him  with  felony. 
FALDER.  Oh,  sir!    There's  some  one — I  did  it  for 
her.     Let  me  be  till  to-morrow. 

JAMES  motions  with  his  hand.  At  that  sign  of 
hardness,  FALDER  becomes  rigid.  Then, 
turning,  he  goes  out  quietly  in  the  detective's 
grip.  JAMES  follows,  stiff  and  erect.  SWEE- 
DLE, rushing  to  the  door  with  open  mouth, 
pursues  them  through  the  outer  office  into  the 
corridor.  When  they  have  all  disappeared 
COKESON  spins  completely  round  and  makes 
a  rush  for  the  outer  office. 

COKESON.  [Hoarsely]  Here!  Here!  What  are  we 
doing  ? 


ACT  i  JUSTICE  23 

There  is  silence.  He  takes  out  his  handkerchief 
and  mops  the  sweat  from  his  face.  Going 
back  blindly  to  his  table,  sits  down,  and 
stares  blankly  at  his  lunch. 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT   II 

A  Court  of  Justice,  on  a  foggy  October  afternoon — 
crowded  with  barristers,  solicitors,  reporters,  ushers, 
and  jurymen.  Sitting  in  the  large,  solid  dock  is 
FALDER,  with  a  warder  on  either  side  of  him,  placed 
there  for  his  safe  custody,  but  seemingly  indifferent 
to  and  unconscious  of  his  presence.  FALDER  is 
sitting  exactly  opposite  to  the  JUDGE,  who,  raised 
above  the  clamour  of  the  court,  also  seems  unconscious 
of  and  indifferent  to  everything.  HAROLD  CLEAVER, 
the  counsel  for  the  Crown,  is  a  dried,  yellowish 
man,  of  more  than  middle  age,  in  a  wig  worn  almost 
to  the  colour  of  his  face.  HECTOR  FROME,  the 
counsel  for  the  defence,  is  a  young,  tall  man,  clean- 
shaved,  in  a  very  white  wig.  Among  the  spectators, 
having  already  given  their  evidence,  are  JAMES  and 
WALTER  How,  and  COWLEY,  the  cashier.  WISTER, 
the  detective,  is  just  leaving  the  witness-box. 

CLEAVER.  That  is  the  case  for  the  Crown,  me  lud! 

Gathering  his  robes  together,  he  sits  down. 

FROME.  [Rising  and  bowing  to  the  JUDGE]  If  it  please 

your  lordship  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury.     I  am  not 

going  to  dispute  the  fact  that  the  prisoner  altered 

25 


26  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

this  cheque,  but  I  am  going  to  put  before  you  evidence 
as  to  the  condition  of  his  mind,  and  to  submit  that 
you  would  not  be  justified  in  finding  that  he  was 
responsible  for  his  actions  at  the  time.  I  am  going 
to  show  you,  in  fact,  that  he  did  this  in  a  moment 
of  aberration,  amounting  to  temporary  insanity,  caused 
by  the  violent  distress  under  which  he  was  labouring. 
Gentlemen,  the  prisoner  is  only  twenty-three  years  old. 
I  shall  call  before  you  a  woman  from  whom-  you  will 
learn  the  events  that  led  up  to  this  act.  You  will  hear 
from  her  own  lips  the  tragic  circumstances  of  her  life, 
the  still  more  tragic  infatuation  with  which  she  has 
inspired  the  prisoner.  This  woman,  gentlemen,  has 
been  leading  a  miserable  existence  with  a  husband  who 
habitually  ill-uses  her,  from  whom  she  actually  goes  in 
terror  of  her  life.  I  am  not,  of  course,  saying  that  it's 
either  right  or  desirable  for  a  young  man  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  married  woman,  or  that  it's  his  business  to  rescue 
her  from  an  ogre-like  husband.  I'm  not  saying  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  But  we  all  know  the  power  of  the 
passion  of  love;  and  I  would  ask  you  to  remember, 
gentlemen,  in  listening  to  her  evidence,  that,  married 
to  a  drunken  and  violent  husband,  she  has  no  power 
to  get  rid  of  him;  for,  as  you  know,  another  offence 
besides  violence  is  necessary  to  enable  a  woman  to 
obtain  a  divorce;  and  of  this  offence  it  does  not  appear 
that  her  husband  is  guilty. 

JUDGE.  Is  this  relevant,  Mr.  Frome  ? 

FROME.  My  lord,  I  submit,  extremely — I  shall  be 
able  to  show  your  lordship  that  directly. 


ACT  IT  JUSTICE  27 

JUDGE.  Very  well. 

FROME.  In  these  circumstances,  what  alternatives 
were  left  to  her?  She  could  either  go  on  living  with 
this  drunkard,  in  terror  of  her  life;  or  she  could  apply 
to  the  Court  for  a  separation  order.  Well,  gentlemen, 
my  experience  of  such  cases  assures  me  that  this  would 
have  given  her  very  insufficient  protection  from  the 
violence  of  such  a  man ;  and  even  if  effectual  would  very 
likely  have  reduced  her  either  to  the  workhouse  or 
the  streets — for  it's  not  easy,  as  she  is  now  finding, 
for  an  unskilled  woman  without  means  of  livelihood 
to  support  herself  and  her  children  without  resorting 
either  to  the  Poor  Law  or — to  speak  quite  plainly — to 
the  sale  of  her  body. 

JUDGE.  You  are  ranging  rather  far,  Mr.  Frome. 

FROME.  I  shall  fire  point-blank  in  a  minute,  my 
lord. 

JUDGE.  Let  us  hope  so. 

FROME.  Now,  gentlemen,  mark — and  this  is  what 
I  have  been  leading  up  to — this  woman  will  tell  you, 
and  the  prisoner  will  confirm  her,  that,  confronted 
with  such  alternatives,  she  set  her  whole  hopes  on 
himself,  knowing  the  feeling  with  which  she  had 
inspired  him.  She  saw  a  way  out  of  her  misery  by 
going  with  him  to  a  new  country,  where  they  would 
both  be  unknown,  and  might  pass  as  husband  and 
wife.  This  was  a  desperate  and,  as  my  friend  Mr. 
Cleaver  will  no  doubt  call  it,  an  immoral  resolution; 
but,  as  a  fact,  the  minds  of  both  of  them  were  con- 
stantly turned  towards  it.  One  wrong  is  no  excuse 


28  JUSTICE  ACTH 

for  another,  and  those  who  are  never  likely  to  be 
faced  by  such  a  situation  possibly  have  the  right  to 
hold  up  their  hands — as  to  that  I  prefer  to  say  nothing. 
But  whatever  view  you  take,  gentlemen,  of  this  part 
of  the  prisoner's  story — whatever  opinion  you  form  of 
the  right  of  these  two  young  people  under  such  cir- 
cumstances to  take  the  law  into  their  own  hands — 
the  fact  remains  that  this  young  woman  in  her  distress, 
and  this  young  man,  little  more  than  a  boy,  who  was  so 
devotedly  attached  to  her,  did  conceive  this — if  you  like 
— reprehensible  design  of  going  away  together.  Now, 
for  that,  of  course,  they  required  money,  and — they 
had  none.  As  to  the  actual  events  of  the  morning  of 
July  7th,  on  which  this  cheque  was  altered,  the  events 
on  which  I  rely  to  prove  the  defendant's  irresponsi- 
bility— I  shall  allow  those  events  to  speak  for  themselves, 
through  the  lips  of  my  witnesses.  Robert  Cokeson. 
[He  turns,  looks  round,  takes  up  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
waits.] 

COKESON  is  summoned  into  court,  and  goes  into 
the  witness-box,  holding  his  hat  before  him. 
The  oath  is  administered  to  him. 

FROME.  What  is  your  name  ? 

COKESON.  Robert  Cokeson. 

FROME.  Are  you  managing  clerk  to  the  firm  of 
solicitors  who  employ  the  prisoner? 

COKESON.  Ye-es. 

FROME.  How  long  had  the  prisoner  been  in  their 
employ  ? 


ACT    II 


JUSTICE  29 


COKESON.  Two  years.  No,  I'm  wrong  there — all 
but  seventeen  days. 

FROME.  Had  you  him  under  your  eye  all  that 
time? 

COKESON.  Except  Sundays  and  holidays. 

FROME.  Quite  so.  Let  us  hear,  please,  what  you 
have  to  say  about  his  general  character  during  those 
two  years. 

COKESON.  [Confidentially  to  the  jury,  and  as  if  a 
little  surprised  at  being  asked]  He  was  a  nice,  pleasant- 
spoken  young  man.  I'd  no  fault  to  find  with  him — 
quite  the  contrary.  It  was  a  great  surprise  to  me 
when  he  did  a  thing  like  that. 

FROME.  Did  he  ever  give  you  reason  to  suspect  his 
honesty  ? 

COKESON.  No!  To  have  dishonesty  in  our  office, 
that'd  never  do. 

FROME.  I'm  sure  the  jury  fully  appreciate  that, 
Mr.  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  Every  man  of  business  knows  that 
honesty's  the  sign  qua  non. 

FROME.  Do  you  give  him  a  good  character  all 
round,  or  do  you  not? 

COKESON.  [Turning  to  the  JUDGE]  Certainly.  We 
were  all  very  jolly  and  pleasant  together,  until  this 
happened.  Quite  upset  me. 

FROME.  Now,  coming  to  the  morning  of  the  7th  of 
July,  the  morning  on  which  the  cheque  was  altered. 
What  have  you  to  say  about  his  demeanour  that 
morning  ? 


30  JUSTICE 


ACT    II 


COKESON.  [To  the  jury]  If  you  ask  me,  I  don't 
think  he  was  quite  compos  when  he  did  it. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Sharply]  Are  you  suggesting  that  he 
was  insane? 

COKESON.  Not  compos. 

THE  JUDGE.  A  little  more  precision,  please. 

FROME.  [Smoothly]  Just  tell  us,  Mr.  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  [Somewhat  outraged]  Well,  in  my  opinion 
— [looking  at  the  JUDGE] — such  as  it  is — he  was  jumpy 
at  the  time.  The  jury  will  understand  my  meaning. 

FROME.  Will  you  tell  us  how  you  came  to  that 
conclusion  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  I  will.  I  have  my  lunch  in 
from  the  restaurant,  a  chop  and  a  potato — saves 
time.  That  day  it  happened  to  come  just  as  Mr. 
Walter  How  handed  me  the  cheque.  Well,  I  like  it 
hot;  so  I  went  into  the  clerks'  office  and  I  handed 
the  cheque  to  Davis,  the  other  clerk,  and  told  him  to 
get  change.  I  noticed  young  Falder  walking  up  and 
down.  I  said  to  him:  "This  is  not  the  Zoological 
Gardens,  Falder." 

FROME.  Do  you  remember  what  he  answered  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es:  "I  wish  to  God  it  were!"  Struck 
me  as  funny. 

FROME.  Did  you  notice  anything  else  peculiar  ? 

COKESON.  I  did. 

FROME.  What  was  that  ? 

COKESON.  His  collar  was  unbuttoned.  Now,  I  like 
a  young  man  to  be  neat.  I  said  to  him:  "Your 
collar's  unbuttoned." 


ACT  n  JUSTICE  31 

FROME.  And  what  did  he  answer? 

COKESON.  Stared  at  me.     It  wasn't  nice. 

THE  JUDGE.  Stared  at  you  ?  Isn't  that  a  very 
common  practice? 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  but  it  was  the  look  in  his  eyes.  I 
can't  explain  my  meaning — it  was  funny. 

FROME.  Had  you  ever  seen  such  a  look  in  his  eyes 
before  ? 

COKESON.  No.  If  I  had  I  should  have  spoken  to 
the  partners.  We  can't  have  anything  eccentric  in 
our  profession. 

THE  JUDGE.  Did  you  speak  to  them  on  that  oc- 
casion ? 

COKESON.  [Confidentially]  Well,  I  didn't  like  to 
trouble  them  about  prime  facey  evidence. 

FROME.  But  it  made  a  very  distinct  impression  on 
your  mind  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es.  The  clerk  Davis  could  have  told 
you  the  same. 

FROME.  Quite  so.  It's  very  unfortunate  that  we've 
not  got  him  here.  Now  can  you  tell  me  of  the  morning 
on  which  the  discovery  of  the  forgery  was  made  ? 
That  would  be  the  18th.  Did  anything  happen  that 
morning  ? 

COKESON.  [With  his  hand  to  his  ear]  I'm  a  little 
deaf. 

FROME.  Was  there  anything  in  the  course  of  that 
morning — I  mean  before  the  discovery — that  caught 
your  attention  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es — a  woman. 


32  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

THE  JUDGE.  How  is  this  relevant,  Mr.  Frome  ? 

FROME.  I  am  trying  to  establish  the  state  of  mind 
in  which  the  prisoner  committed  this  act,  my  lord. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  quite  appreciate  that.  But  this  was 
long  after  the  act. 

FROME.  Yes,  my  lord,  but  it  contributes  to  my 
contention. 

THE  JUDGE.  Well! 

FROME.  You  say  a  woman.  Do  you  mean  that  she 
came  to  the  office  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es. 

FROME.  What  for  ? 

COKESON.  Asked  to  see  young  Falder;  he  was  out 
at  the  moment. 

FROME.  Did  you  see  her? 

COKESON.  I  did. 

FROME.  Did  she  come  alone? 

COKESON.  [Confidentially]  Well,  there  you  put  me 
In  a  difficulty.  I  mustn't  tell  you  what  the  office- 
boy  told  me. 

FROME.  Quite  so,  Mr.  Cokeson,  quite  so 

COKESON.  [Breaking  in  with  an  air  of  "  You  are 
young — leave  it  to  me"]  But  I  think  we  can  get 
round  it.  In  answer  to  a  question  put  to  her  by  a 
third  party  the  woman  said  to  me:  "They're  mine, 
sir." 

THE  JUDGE.  What  are  ?    What  were  ? 

COKESON.  Her  children.     They  were  outside. 

THE  JUDGE.  How  do  you  know  ? 

COKESON.  Your  lordship  mustn't  ask  me  that,  or  I 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  33 

shall  have  to  tell  you  what  I  was  told — and  that'd 
never  do. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Smiling]  The  office-boy  made  a  state- 
ment. 

COKESON.  Egg-zactly. 

FROME.  What  I  want  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Cokeson,  is 
this.  In  the  course  of  her  appeal  to  see  Falder,  did 
the  woman  say  anything  that  you  specially  remem- 
ber? 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him  as  if  to  encourage  him  to 
complete  the  sentence]  A  leetle  more,  sir. 

FROME.  Or  did  she  not? 

COKESON.  She  did.  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  have 
led  me  to  the  answer. 

FROME.  [With  an  irritated  smile]  Will  you  tell  the 
jury  what  it  was  ? 

COKESON.  "It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

FOREMAN  OF  THE  JURY.  Do  you  mean  the  woman 
said  that? 

COKESON.  [Nodding]  It's  not  the  sort  of  thing  you 
like  to  have  said  to  you. 

FROME.  [A  little  impatiently]  Did  Falder  come  in 
while  she  was  there  ?  [COKESON  nods]  And  she  saw 
him,  and  went  away? 

COKESON.  Ah!  there  I  can't  follow  you.  I  didn't 
see  her  go. 

FROME.  Well,  is  she  there  now  ? 

COKESON.  [With  an  indulgent  smile]  No! 

FROME.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Cokeson.      [He  sits  down. 

CLEAVER.  [Rising]  You  say  that  on  the  morning  of 


34  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

the  forgery  the  prisoner  was  jumpy.     Well,  now,  sir, 
what  precisely  do  you  mean  by  that  word  ? 

COKESON.  [Indulgently]  I  want  you  to  understand. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  dog  that's  lost  its  master?  He 
was  kind  of  everywhere  at  once  with  his  eyes. 

CLEAVER.  Thank  you;  I  was  coming  to  his  eyes. 
You  called  them  "funny."  What  are  we  to  under- 
stand by  that  ?  Strange,  or  what  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  funny. 

CLEAVER.  [Sharply]  Yes,  sir,  but  what  may  be 
funny  to  you  may  not  be  funny  to  me,  or  to  the  jury. 
Did  they  look  frightened,  or  shy,  or  fierce,  or 
what? 

COKESON.  You  make  it  very  hard  for  me.  I  give 
you  the  word,  and  you  want  me  to  give  you  another. 

CLEAVER.  [Rapping  his  desk]  Does  "funny"  mean 
mad? 

COKESON.  Not  mad,  fun 

CLEAVER.  Very  well!  Now  you  say  he  had  his 
collar  unbuttoned  ?  Was  it  a  hot  day  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es;  I  think  it  was. 

CLEAVER.  And  did  he  button  it  when  you  called 
his  attention  to  it  ? 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  I  think  he  did. 

CLEAVER.  Would  you  say  that  that  denoted  in- 
sanity ? 

He  sits  down.     COKESON,  who  has  opened  his 
mouth  to  reply,  is  left  gaping. 

FROME.  [Rising  hastily]  Have  you  ever  caught  him 
in  that  dishevelled  state  before  ? 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  35 

COKESON.  No!     He  was  always  clean  and  quiet. 
FROME.  That  will  do,  thank  you. 

COKESON  turns  blandly  to  the  JUDGE,  a*  though 
to  rebuke  counsel  for  not  remembering  that 
the  JUDGE  might  ivish  to  have  a  chance; 
arriving  at  the  conclusion  that  he  is  to  be 
asked  nothing  farther,  he  turns  and  descends 
from  the  box,  and  sits  down  next  to  JAMES 
and  WALTER. 

FROME.  Ruth  Honeywill. 

RUTH  comes  into  court,  and  takes  her  stand 
stoically  in  the  witness-box.  She  is  sworn. 

FROME.  What  is  your  name,  please  ? 

RUTH.  Ruth  Honeywill. 

FROME.  How  old  are  you  ? 

RUTH.  Twenty-six. 

FROME.  You  are  a  married  woman,  living  with  your 
husband  ?     A  little  louder. 

RUTH.  No,  sir;  not  since  July. 

FROME.  Have  you  any  children  ? 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir,  two. 

FROME.  Are  they  living  with  you  ? 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir. 

FROME.  You  know  the  prisoner? 

RUTH.  [Looking  at  him]  Yes. 

FROME.  What  was  the  nature  of  your  relations  with 
him? 

RUTH.  We  were  friends. 

THE  JUDGE.  Friends  ? 


36  JUSTICE  ACT  H 

RUTH.  [Simply]  Lovers,  sir. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Sharply]  In  what  sense  do  you  use 
that  word  ? 

RUTH.  We  love  each  other. 

THE  JUDGE.  Yes,  but 

RUTH.  [Shaking  her  head]  No,  your  lordship — not 
yet. 

THE  JUDGE.  Not  yet!  H'm!  [He  looks  from  RUTH 
to  FALDER]  Well! 

FROME.  What  is  your  husband  ? 

RUTH.  Traveller. 

FROME.  And  what  was  the  nature  of  your  married 
life? 

RUTH.  [Shaking  her  head]  It  don't  bear  talking 
about. 

FROME.  Did  he  ill-treat  you,  or  what  ? 

RUTH.  Ever  since  my  first  was  born. 

FROME.  In  what  way? 

RUTH.  I'd  rather  not  say.     All  sorts  of  ways. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  am  afraid  I  must  stop  this,  you  know. 

RUTH.  [Pointing  to  FALDER]  He  offered  to  take  me 
out  of  it,  sir.  We  were  going  to  South  America. 

FROME.  [Hastily]  Yes,  quite — and  what  prevented 
you  ? 

RUTH.  I  was  outside  his  office  when  he  was  taken 
away.  It  nearly  broke  my  heart. 

FROME.  You  knew,  then,  that  he  had  been  arrested  ? 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir.  I  called  at  his  office  afterwards, 
and  [pointing  to  COKESON]  that  gentleman  told  me  all 
about  it. 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  37 

FROME.  Now,  do  you  remember  the  morning  of 
Friday,  July  7th? 

RUTH.  Yes. 

FROME.  Why? 

RUTH.  My  husband  nearly  strangled  me  that 
morning. 

THE  JUDGE.  Nearly  strangled  you! 

RUTH.  [Bowing  her  head]  Yes,  my  lord. 

FROME.  With  his  hands,  or ? 

RUTH.  Yes,  I  just  managed  to  get  away  from 
him.  I  went  straight  to  my  friend.  It  was  eight 
o'clock. 

THE  JUDGE.  In  the  morning?  Your  husband  was 
not  under  the  influence  of  liquor  then  ? 

RUTH.  It  wasn't  always  that. 

FROME.  In  what  condition  were  you  ? 

RUTH.  In  very  bad  condition,  sir.  My  dress  was 
torn,  and  I  was  hah*  choking. 

FROME.  Did  you  tell  your  friend  what  had  hap- 
pened? 

RUTH.  Yes.     I  wish  I  never  had. 

FROME.  It  upset  him  ? 

RUTH.  Dreadfully. 

FROME.  Did  he  ever  speak  to  you  about  a  cheque  ? 

RUTH.  Never. 

FROME.  Did  he  ever  give  you  any  money  ? 

RUTH.  Yes. 

FROME.  When  was  that? 

RUTH.  On  Saturday. 

FROME.  The  8th  ? 


38  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

RUTH.  To  buy  an  outfit  for  me  and  the  children, 
and  get  all  ready  to  start. 

FROME.  Did  that  surprise  you,  or  not? 

RUTH.  What,  sir? 

FROME.  That  he  had  money  to  give  you. 

RUTH.  Yes,  because  on  the  morning  when  my 
husband  nearly  killed  me  my  friend  cried  because 
he  hadn't  the  money  to  get  me  away.  He  told  me 
afterwards  he'd  come  into  a  windfall. 

FROME.  And  when  did  you  last  see  him? 

RUTH.  The  day  he  was  taken  away,  sir.  It  was 
the  day  we  were  to  have  started. 

FROME.  Oh,  yes,  the  morning  of  the  arrest.  Well, 
did  you  see  him  at  all  between  the  Friday  and  that 
morning  ?  [Rurn  nods]  What  was  his  manner  then  ? 

RUTH.  Dumb-like — sometimes  he  didn't  seem  able 
to  say  a  word. 

FROME.  As  if  something  unusual  had  happened  to 
him? 

RUTH.  Yes. 

FROME.  Painful,  or  pleasant,  or  what? 

RUTH.  Like  a  fate  hanging  over  him. 

FROME.  [Hesitating]  Tell  me,  did  you  love  the  pris- 
oner very  much? 

RUTH.  [Bowing  her  head]  Yes. 

FROME.  And  had  he  a  very  great  affection  for  you  ? 

RUTH.  [Looking  at  FALDER]  Yes,  sir. 

FROME.  Now,  ma'am,  do  you  or  do  you  not  think 
that  your  danger  and  unhappiness  would  seriously 
affect  his  balance,  his  control  over  his  actions  ? 


xcrn 


JUSTICE  39 


RUTH.  Yes. 

FROME.  His  reason,  even  ? 

RUTH.  For  a  moment  like,  I  think  it  would. 

FROME.  Was  he  very  much  upset  that  Friday  morn- 
ing, or  was  he  fairly  calm? 

RUTH.  Dreadfully  upset.  I  could  hardly  bear  to 
let  him  go  from  me. 

FROME.  Do  you  still  love  him  ? 

RUTH.  [With  her  eyes  on  FALDER]  He's  ruined 
himself  for  me. 

FROME.  Thank  you. 

He  sits  doum.     RUTH  remains  stoically  upright 
in  the  witness-box. 

CLEAVER.  [In  a  considerate  voice]  When  you  left 
him  on  the  morning  of  Friday  the  7th  you  would  not 
say  that  he  was  out  of  his  mind,  I  suppose  ? 

RUTH.  No,  sir. 

CLEAVER.  Thank  you;  I've  no  further  questions  to 
ask  you. 

RUTH.  [Bending  a  little  forward  to  the  jury]  I  would 
have  done  the  same  for  him;  I  would  indeed. 

THE  JUDGE.  Please,  please!  You  say  your  married 
life  is  an  unhappy  one  ?  Faults  on  both  sides  ? 

RUTH.  Only  that  I  never  bowed  down  to  him.  I 
don't  see  why  I  should,  sir,  not  to  a  man  like  that. 

THE  JUDGE.  You  refused  to  obey  him? 

RUTH.  [Avoiding  the  question]  I've  always  studied 
him  to  keep  things  nice. 

THE  JUDGE.  Until  you  met  the  prisoner  —  was 
that  it  ? 


40  JUSTICE  ACTH 

RUTH.  No;  even  after  that. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  ask,  you  know,  because  you  seem  to 
me  to  glory  in  this  affection  of  yours  for  the  prisoner. 

RUTH.  [Hesitating]  I — I  do.     It's  the  only  thing  in 
my  life  now. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Staring  at  her  hard]  Well,  step  down, 
please. 

RUTH   looks  at  FALDER,  then  passes  quietly 
down  and  takes  her  seat  among  the  witnesses. 

FROME.  I  call  the  prisoner,  my  lord. 

FALDER  leaves  the  dock;  goes  into  the  witness- 
box,  and  is  duly  sworn. 

FROME.  What  is  your  name  ? 

FALDER.  William  Falder. 

FROME.  And  age  ? 

FALDER.  Twenty-three. 

FROME.  You  are  not  married? 

FALDER  shakes  his  head. 

FROME.  How  long  have  you  known  the  last  witness  ? 

FALDER.  Six  months. 

FROME.  Is  her  account  of  the  relationship  between 
you  a  correct  one  ? 

FALDER.  Yes. 

FROME.  You    became    devotedly    attached    to  her, 
however  ? 

FALDER.  Yes. 

THE  JUDGE.  Though  you  knew  she  was  a  married 
woman  ? 

FALDER.  I  couldn't  help  it,  your  lordship. 

THE  JUDGE.  Couldn't  help  it  ? 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  41 

FALDER.  I  didn't  seem  able  to. 

The  JUDGE  slightly  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

FROME.  How  did  you  come  to  know  her? 

FALDER.  Through  my  married  sister. 

FROME.  Did  you  know  whether  she  was  happy  with 
her  husband  ? 

FALDER.  It  was  trouble  all  the  time. 

FROME.  You  knew  her  husband  ? 

FALDER.  Only  through  her — he's  a  brute. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  can't  allow  indiscriminate  abuse  of 
a  person  not  present. 

FROME.  [Bowing]  If  your  lordship  pleases.  [To 
FALDER]  You  admit  altering  this  cheque  ? 

FALDER  bows  his  head. 

FROME.  Carry  your  mind,  please,  to  the  morning 
of  Friday,  July  the  7th,  and  tell  the  jury  what  happened. 

FALDER.  [Turning  to  the  jury]  I  was  having  my 
breakfast  when  she  came.  Her  dress  was  all  torn, 
and  she  was  gasping  and  couldn't  seem  to  get  her 
breath  at  all;  there  were  the  marks  of  his  fingers  round 
her  throat;  her  arm  was  bruised,  and  the  blood  had 
got  into  her  eyes  dreadfully.  It  frightened  me,  and 
then  when  she  told  me,  I  felt — I  felt — well — it  was  too 
much  for  me!  [Hardening  suddenly]  If  you'd  seen  it, 
having  the  feelings  for  her  that  I  had,  you'd  have  felt 
the  same,  I  know. 

FROME.  Yes  ? 

FALDER.  When  she  left  me — because  I  had  to  go 
to  the  office — I  was  out  of  my  senses  for  fear  that 
he'd  do  it  again,  and  thinking  what  I  could  do.  I 


42  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

couldn't  work — all  the  morning  I  was  like  that — 
simply  couldn't  fix  my  mind  on  anything.  I  couldn't 
think  at  all.  I  seemed  to  have  to  keep  moving.  When 
Davis — the  other  clerk — gave  me  the  cheque — he  said: 
"It'll  do  you  good,  Will,  to  have  a  run  with  this. 
You  seem  half  off  your  chump  this  morning."  Then 
when  I  had  it  in  my  hand — I  don't  know  how  it  came, 
but  it  just  flashed  across  me  that  if  I  put  the  t  y  and 
the  nought  there  would  be  the  money  to  get  her  away. 
It  just  came  and  went — I  never  thought  of  it  again. 
Then  Davis  went  out  to  his  luncheon,  and  I  don't 
really  remember  what  I  did  till  I'd  pushed  the  cheque 
through  to  the  cashier  under  the  rail.  I  remember 
his  saying  "Gold  or  notes?"  Then  I  suppose  I  knew 
what  I'd  done.  Anyway,  when  I  got  outside  I  wanted 
to  chuck  myself  under  a  'bus;  I  wanted  to  throw  the 
money  away;  but  it  seemed  I  was  in  for  it,  so  I  thought 
at  any  rate  I'd  save  her.  Of  course  the  tickets  I  took 
for  the  passage  and  the  little  I  gave  her's  been  wasted, 
and  all,  except  what  I  was  obliged  to  spend  myself,  I've 
restored.  I  keep  thinking  over  and  over  however  it  was 
I  came  to  do  it,  and  how  I  can't  have  it  all  again  to  do 
differently! 

FALDER  is  silent,  twisting  his  hands  before 
him. 

FROME.  How  far  is  it  from  your  office  to  the  bank  ? 

FALDER.  Not  more  than  fifty  yards,  sir. 

FROME.  From  the  time  Davis  went  out  to  lunch  to 
the  time  you  cashed  the  cheque,  how  long  do  you  say 
it  must  have  been  ? 


ACT   II 


JUSTICE  43 


FALDER.  It  couldn't  have  been  four  minutes,  sir,  be- 
cause I  ran  all  the  way. 

FROME.  During  those  four  minutes  you  say  you 
remember  nothing? 

FALDER.  No,  sir;  only  that  I  ran. 

FROME.  Not  even  adding  the  t  y  and  the  nought  ? 

FALDER.  No,  sir.     I  don't  really. 

FROME  sits  doicn,  and  CLEAVER  rises. 

CLEAVER.  But  you  remember  running,  do  you  ? 

FALDER.  I  was  all  out  of  breath  when  I  got  to  the 
bank. 

CLEAVER.  And  you  don't  remember  altering  the 
cheque  ? 

FALDER.  [Faintly]  No,  sir. 

CLEAVER.  Divested  of  the  romantic  glamour  which 
my  friend  is  casting  over  the  case,  is  this  anything 
but  an  ordinary  forgery  ?  Come. 

FALDER.  I  was  half  frantic  all  that  morning,  sir. 

CLEAVER.  Now,  now!  You  don't  deny  that  the 
t  y  and  the  nought  were  so  like  the  rest  of  the  hand- 
writing as  to  thoroughly  deceive  the  cashier? 

FALDER.  It  was  an  accident. 

CLEAVER.  [Cheerfully]  Queer  sort  of  accident,  wasn't 
it  ?  On  which  day  did  you  alter  the  counterfoil  ? 

FALDER.  [Hanging  his  head}  On  the  Wednesday 
morning. 

CLEAVER.  Was  that  an  accident  too  ? 

FALDER.  [Faintly]  No. 

CLEAVER.  To  do  that  you  had  to  watch  your  oppor- 
tunity, I  suppose  ? 


44  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

FALDER.  [Almost  inaudibly]  Yes. 

CLEAVER.  You  don't  suggest  that  you  were  suffering 
under  great  excitement  when  you  did  that  ? 

FALDER.  I  was  haunted. 

CLEAVER.  With  the  fear  of  being  found  out  ? 

FALDER.  [Very  low]  Yes. 

THE  JUDGE.  Didn't  it  occur  to  you  that  the  only 
thing  for  you  to  do  was  to  confess  to  your  employers, 
and  restore  the  money  ? 

FALDER.  I  was  afraid.  [There  is  silence. 

CLEAVER.  You  desired,  too,  no  doubt,  to  complete 
your  design  of  taking  this  woman  away  ? 

FALDER.  When  I  found  I'd  done  a  thing  like  that, 
to  do  it  for  nothing  seemed  so  dreadful.  I  might 
just  as  well  have  chucked  myself  into  the  river. 

CLEAVER.  You  knew  that  the  clerk  Davis  was  about 
to  leave  England — didn't  it  occur  to  you  when  you 
altered  this  cheque  that  suspicion  would  fall  on 
him? 

FALDER.  It  was  all  done  in  a  moment.  I  thought 
of  it  afterwards. 

CLEAVER.  And  that  didn't  lead  you  to  avow  what 
you'd  done  ? 

FALDER.  [Sullenly]  I  meant  to  write  when  I  got 
out  there — I  would  have  repaid  the  money. 

THE  JUDGE.  But  in  the  meantime  your  innocent 
fellow  clerk  might  have  been  prosecuted. 

FALDER.  I  knew  he  was  a  long  way  off,  your  lordship. 
I  thought  there'd  be  time.  I  didn't  think  they'd  find 
it  out  so  soon. 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  45 

FROME.  I  might  remind  your  lordship  that  as  Mr. 
Walter  How  had  the  cheque-book  in  his  pocket  till 
after  Davis  had  sailed,  if  the  discovery  had  been 
made  only  one  day  later  Falder  himself  would  have 
left,  and  suspicion  would  have  attached  to  him,  and 
not  to  Davis,  from  the  beginning. 

THE  JUDGE.  The  question  is  whether  the  prisoner 
knew  that  suspicion  would  light  on  himself,  and  not 
on  Davis.  [To  FALDER  sharply]  Did  you  know  that 
Mr.  Walter  How  had  the  cheque-book  till  after  Davis 
had  sailed? 

FALDER.  I — I — thought — he 

THE  JUDGE.  Now  speak  the  truth — yes  or  no! 

FALDER.  [Very  low]  No,  my  lord.  I  had  no  means 
of  knowing. 

THE  JUDGE.  That  disposes  of  your  point,  Mr. 
Frome. 

[FROME  bows  to  the  JUDGE. 

CLEAVER.  Has  any  aberration  of  this  nature  ever 
attacked  you  before  ? 

FALDER.  [Faintly]  No,  sir. 

CLEAVER.  You  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  go  back 
to  your  work  that  afternoon  ? 

FALDER.  Yes,  I  had  to  take  the  money  back. 

CLEAVER.  You  mean  the  nine  pounds.  Your  wits 
were  sufficiently  keen  for  you  to  remember  that? 
And  you  still  persist  in  saying  you  don't  remember 
altering  this  cheque.  [He  sits  down. 

FALDER.  If  I  hadn't  been  mad  I  should  never 
have  had  the  courage. 


46  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

FROME.  [Rising]  Did  you  have  your  lunch  before 
going  back? 

FALDER.  I  never  ate  a  thing  all  day;  and  at  night 
I  couldn't  sleep. 

FROME.  Now,  as  to  the  four  minutes  that  elapsed 
between  Davis's  going  out  and  your  cashing  the  cheque : 
do  you  say  that  you  recollect  nothing  during  those  four 
minutes  ? 

FALDER.  [After  a  moment]  I  remember  thinking  of 
Mr.  Cokeson's  face. 

FROME.  Of  Mr.  Cokeson's  face!  Had  that  any 
connection  with  what  you  were  doing? 

FALDER.  No,  sir. 

FROME.  Was  that  in  the  office,  before  you  ran 
out? 

FALDER.  Yes,  and  while  I  was  running. 

FROME.  And  that  lasted  till  the  cashier  said:  "Will 
you  have  gold  or  notes?" 

FALDER.  Yes,  and  then  I  seemed  to  come  to  myself 
— and  it  was  too  late. 

FROME.  Thank  you.  That  closes  the  evidence  for 
the  defence,  my  lord. 

The  JUDGE  nods,  and  FALDER  goes  back  to 
his  seat  in  the  dock. 

FROME.  [Gathering  up  notes]  If  it  please  your  lordship 
— Gentlemen  of  the  Jury, — My  friend  in  cross-examina- 
tion has  shown  a  disposition  to  sneer  at  the  defence 
which  has  been  set  up  in  this  case,  and  I  am  free  to 
admit  that  nothing  I  can  say  will  move  you,  if  the  evi- 
dence has  not  already  convinced  you  that  the  prisoner 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  47 

committed  this  act  in  a  moment  when  to  all  practical 
intents  and  purposes  he  was  not  responsible  for  his 
actions;  a  moment  of  such  mental  and  moral  vacuity, 
arising  from  the  violent  emotional  agitation  under  which 
he  had  been  suffering,  as  to  amount  to  temporary 
madness.  My  friend  has  alluded  to  the  "romantic 
glamour"  with  which  I  have  sought  to  invest  this  case. 
Gentlemen,  I  have  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have 
merely  shown  you  the  background  of  "life" — that 
palpitating  life  which,  believe  me — whatever  my  friend 
may  say — always  lies  behind  the  commission  of  a  crime. 
Now  gentlemen,  we  live  in  a  highly  civilized  age, 
and  the  sight  of  brutal  violence  disturbs  us  in  a  very 
strange  way,  even  when  we  have  no  personal  interest 
in  the  matter.  But  when  we  see  it  inflicted  on  a 
woman  whom  we  love — what  then  ?  Just  think  of 
what  your  own  feelings  would  have  been,  each  of  you, 
at  the  prisoner's  age;  and  then  look  at  him.  Well! 
he  is  hardly  the  comfortable,  shall  we  say  bucolic,  person 
likely  to  contemplate  with  equanimity  marks  of  gross 
violence  on  a  woman  to  whom  he  was  devotedly  at- 
tached. Yes,  gentlemen,  look  at  him!  He  has  not  a 
strong  face ;  but  neither  has  he  a  vicious  face.  He  is  just 
the  sort  of  man  who  would  easily  become  the  prey  of 
his  emotions.  You  have  heard  the  description  of  his 
eyes.  My  friend  may  laugh  at  the  word  "funny" — 7 
think  it  better  describes  the  peculiar  uncanny  look  of 
those  who  are  strained  to  breaking-point  than  any  other 
word  which  could  have  been  used.  I  don't  pretend, 
mind  you,  that  his  mental  irresponsibility  was  more 


48  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

than  a  flash  of  darkness,  in  which  all  sense  of  proportion 
became  lost;  but  I  do  contend,  that,  just  as  a  man  who 
destroys  himself  at  such  a  moment  may  be,  and  often 
is,  absolved  from  the  stigma  attaching  to  the  crime  of 
self-murder,  so  he  may,  and  frequently  does,  commit 
other  crimes  while  in  this  irresponsible  condition, 
and  that  he  may  as  justly  be  acquitted  of  criminal 
intent  and  treated  as  a  patient.  I  admit  that  this  is  a 
plea  which  might  well  be  abused.  It  is  a  matter  for 
discretion.  But  here  you  have  a  case  in  which  there 
is  every  reason  to  give  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  You 
heard  me  ask  the  prisoner  what  he  thought  of  during 
those  four  fatal  minutes.  What  was  his  answer?  "I 
thought  of  Mr.  Cokeson's  face!"  Gentlemen,  no  man 
could  invent  an  answer  like  that;  it  is  absolutely  stamped 
with  truth.  You  have  seen  the  great  affection  (legiti- 
mate or  not)  existing  between  him  and  this  woman, 
who  came  here  to  give  evidence  for  him  at  the  risk  of  her 
life.  It  is  impossible  for  you  to  doubt  his  distress  on  the 
morning  when  he  committed  this  act.  We  well  know 
what  terrible  havoc  such  distress  can  make  in  weak 
and  highly  nervous  people.  It  was  all  the  work  of  a 
moment.  The  rest  has  followed,  as  death  follows  a 
stab  to  the  heart,  or  water  drops  if  you  hold  up  a  jug 
to  empty  it.  Believe  me,  gentlemen,  there  is  nothing 
more  tragic  in  life  than  the  utter  impossibility  of  chang- 
ing what  you  have  done.  Once  this  cheque  was 
altered  and  presented,  the  work  of  four  minutes — four 
mad  minutes — the  rest  has  been  silence.  But  in  those 
four  minutes  the  boy  before  you  has  slipped  through  a 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  49 

door,  hardly  opened,  into  that  great  cage  which  never 
again  quite  lets  a  man  go — the  cage  of  the  Law.  His 
further  acts,  his  failure  to  confess,  the  alteration  of  the 
counterfoil,  his  preparations  for  flight,  are  all  evidence 
— not  of  deliberate  and  guilty  intention  when  he  com- 
mitted the  prime  act  from  which  these  subsequent  acts 
arose;  no — they  are  merely  evidence  of  the  weak  char- 
acter which  is  clearly  enough  his  misfortune.  But 
is  a  man  to  be  lost  because  he  is  bred  and  born  with  a 
weak  character?  Gentlemen,  men  like  the  prisoner 
are  destroyed  daily  under  our  law  for  want  of  that  human 
insight  which  sees  them  as  they  are,  patients,  and  not 
criminals.  If  the  prisoner  be  found  guilty,  and  treated 
as  though  he  were  a  criminal  type,  he  will,  as  all  experi- 
ence shows,  in  all  probability  become  one.  I  beg  you 
not  to  return  a  verdict  that  may  thrust  him  back  into 
prison  and  brand  him  for  ever.  Gentlemen,  Justice  is 
a  machine  that,  when  some  one  has  once  given  it  the 
starting  push,  rolls  on  of  itself.  Is  this  young  man  to  be 
ground  to  pieces  under  this  machine  for  an  act  which 
at  the  worst  was  one  of  weakness  ?  Is  he  to  become 
a  member  of  the  luckless  crews  that  man  those  dark, 
ill-starred  ships  called  prisons  ?  Is  that  to  be  his 
voyage — from  which  so  few  return  ?  Or  is  he  to  have 
another  chance,  to  be  still  looked  on  as  one  who  has 
gone  a  little  astray,  but  who  will  come  back  ?  I  urge 
you,  gentlemen,  do  not  ruin  this  young  man!  For, 
as  a  result  of  those  four  minutes,  ruin,  utter  and  irre- 
trievable, stares  him  in  the  face.  He  can  be  saved 
now.  Imprison  him  as  a  criminal,  and  I  affirm  to  you 


I 


50  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

that  he  will  be  lost.  He  has  neither  the  face  nor  the 
manner  of  one  who  can  survive  that  terrible  ordeal. 
Weigh  in  the  scales  his  criminality  and  the  suffering  he 
has  undergone.  The  latter  is  ten  times  heavier  already. 
He  has  lain  in  prison  under  this  charge  for  more  than 
two  months.  Is  he  likely  ever  to  forget  that  ?  Imagine 
the  anguish  of  his  mind  during  that  time.  He  has  had 
his  punishment,  gentlemen,  you  may  depend.  The 
rolling  of  the  chariot-wheels  of  Justice  over  this  boy 
began  when  it  was  decided  to  prosecute  him.  We  are 
now  already  at  the  second  stage.  If  you  permit  it 
to  go  on  to  the  third  I  would  not  give — that  for  him. 

He  holds  up  finger  and  thumb  in  the  form  of  a 

circle,  drops  his  hand,  and  sits  down. 
The  jury  stir,  and  consult  each  other's  faces; 
then  they  turn  towards  the  counsel  for  the 
Crown,  who  rises,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  on  a 
spot  that  seems  to  give  him  satisfaction, 
slides  them  every  now  and  then  towards 
the  jury. 

CLEAVER.  May  it  please  your  lordship — [Rising  on 
his  toes]  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury, — The  facts  in  this 
case  are  not  disputed,  and  the  defence,  if  my  friend  will 
allow  me  to  say  so,  is  so  thin  that  I  don't  propose  to 
waste  the  time  of  the  Court  by  taking  you  over  the 
evidence.  The  plea  is  one  of  temporary  insanity. 
Well,  gentlemen,  I  daresay  it  is  clearer  to  me  than 
it  is  to  you  why  this  rather — what  shall  we  call  it? — 
bizarre  defence  has  been  set  up.  The  alternative  would 
have  been  to  plead  guilty.  Now,  gentlemen,  if  the 


ACT  n  JUSTICE  51 

prisoner  had  pleaded  guilty  my  friend  would  have  had 
to  rely  on  a  simple  appeal  to  his  lordship.  Instead  of 
that,  he  has  gone  into  the  byways  and  hedges  and  found 
this — er — peculiar  plea,  which  has  enabled  him  to 
show  you  the  proverbial  woman,  to  put  her  in  the  box — 
to  give,  in  fact,  a  romantic  glow  to  this  affair.  I  com- 
pliment my  friend;  I  think  it  highly  ingenious  of  him. 
By  these  means,  he  has — to  a  certain  extent — got  round 
the  Law.  He  has  brought  the  whole  story  of  motive 
and  stress  out  in  court,  at  first  hand,  in  a  way  that  he 
would  not  otherwise  have  been  able  to  do.  But  when 
you  have  once  grasped  that  fact,  gentlemen,  you  have 
grasped  everything.  [With  good-humoured  contempt] 
For  look  at  this  plea  of  insanity;  we  can't  put  it  lower 
than  that.  You  have  heard  the  woman.  She  has 
every  reason  to  favour  the  prisoner,  but  what  did  she 
say  ?  She  said  that  the  prisoner  was  not  insane  when 
she  left  him  in  the  morning.  If  he  were  going  out  of 
his  mind  through  distress,  that  was  obviously  the  mo- 
ment when  insanity  ,  would  have  shown  itself.  You 
have  heard  the  managing  clerk,  another  witness  for 
the  defence.  With  some  difficulty  I  elicited  from  him 
the  admission  that  the  prisoner,  though  jumpy  (a  word 
that  he  seemed  to  think  you  would  understand,  gen- 
tlemen, and  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  do),  was  not  mad 
when  the  cheque  was  handed  to  Davis.  I  agree  with 
my  friend  that  it's  unfortunate  that  we  have  not  got 
Davis  here,  but  the  prisoner  has  told  you  the  words 
with  which  Davis  in  turn  handed  him  the  cheque;  he 
obviously,  therefore,  was  not  mad  when  he  received  it, 


52  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

or  he  would  not  have  remembered  those  words.  The 
cashier  has  told  you  that  he  was  certainly  in  his  senses 
when  he  cashed  it.  We  have  therefore  the  plea  that  a 
man  who  is  sane  at  ten  minutes  past  one,  and  sane  at 
fifteen  minutes  past,  may,  for  the  purposes  of  avoiding 
the  consequences  of  a  crime,  call  himself  insane  between 
those  points  of  time.  Really,  gentlemen,  this  is  so 
peculiar  a  proposition  that  I  am  not  disposed  to  weary 
you  with  further  argument.  You  will  form  your  own 
opinion  of  its  value.  My  friend  has  adopted  this  way 
of  saying  a  great  deal  to  you — and  very  eloquently — 
on  the  score  of  youth,  temptation,  and  the  like.  I 
might  point  out,  however,  that  the  offence  with  which  the 
prisoner  is  charged  is  one  of  the  most  serious  known  to 
our  law;  and  there  are  certain  features  in  this  case, 
such  as  the  suspicion  which  he  allowed  to  rest  on 
his  innocent ,  fellow-clerk,  and  his  relations  with  this 
married  woman,  which  will  render  it  difficult  for  you  to 
attach  too  much  importance  to  such  pleading.  I  ask 
you,  in  short,  gentlemen,  for  that  verdict  of  guilty 
which,  in  the  circumstances,  I  regard  you  as,  unfortu- 
nately, bound  to  record. 

Letting  his  eyes  travel  from  the  JUDGE  and 

the  jury  to  FROME,  he  sits  down. 
THE  JUDGE.  [Bending  a  little  towards  the  jury,  and 
speaking  in  a  business-like  voice]  Gentlemen,  you 
have  heard  the  evidence,  and  the  comments  on  it. 
My  only  business  is  to  make  clear  to  you  the  issues  you 
have  to  try.  The  facts  are  admitted,  so  far  as  the 
alteration  of  this  cheque  and  counterfoil  by  the  pris- 


ACT  II 


JUSTICE  53 


oner.  The  defence  set  up  is  that  he  was  not  in  a  re- 
sponsible condition  when  he  committed  the  crime. 
Well,  you  have  heard  the  prisoner's  story,  and  the 
evidence  of  the  other  witnesses — so  far  as  it  bears  on 
the  point  of  insanity.  If  you  think  that  what  you  have 
heard  establishes  the  fact  that  the  prisoner  was  insane 
at  the  time  of  the  forgery,  you  will  find  him  guilty, 
but  insane.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  conclude  from 
what  you  have  seen  and  heard  that  the  prisoner  was 
sane — and  nothing  short  of  insanity  will  count — you 
will  find  him  guilty.  In  reviewing  the  testimony  as 
to  his  mental  condition  you  must  bear  in  mind  very 
carefully  the  evidence  as  to  his  demeanour  and  conduct 
both  before  and  after  the  act  of  forgery — the  evidence 
of  the  prisoner  himself,  of  the  woman,  of  the  witness — er 
— Cokeson,  and — er — of  the  cashier.  And  in  regard 
to  that  I  especially  direct  your  attention  to  the  prisoner's 
admission  that  the  idea  of  adding  the  t  y  and  the  nought 
did  come  into  his  mind  at  the  moment  when  the  cheque 
was  handed  to  him;  and  also  to  the  alteration  of  the 
counterfoil,  and  to  his  subsequent  conduct  generally. 
The  bearing  of  all  this  on  the  question  of  premeditation 
(and  premeditation  will  imply  sanity)  is  very  obvious. 
You  must  not  allow  any  considerations  of  age  or  tempta- 
tion to  weigh  with  you  in  the  finding  of  your  verdict. 
Before  you  can  come  to  a  verdict  of  guilty  but  insane 
you  must  be  well  and  thoroughly  convinced  that  the 
condition  of  his  mind  was  such  as  would  have  qualified 
him  at  the  moment  for  a  lunatic  asylum.  [He  pauses; 
then,  seeing  that  the  jury  are  doubtftd  whether  to  retire 


54  JUSTICE 


ACT    II 


or  no,  adds:]  You  may  retire,  gentlemen,  if  you  wish  to 
do  so. 

The  jury  retire  by  a  door  behind  the  JUDGE. 
The  JUDGE  bends  over  his  notes.  FALDER, 
leaning  from  the  dock,  speaks  excitedly  to  his 
solicitor,  pointing  down  at  RUTH.  The  so- 
licitor in  turn  speaks  to  FROME. 

FROME.  [Rising]  My  lord.  The  prisoner  is  very 
anxious  that  I  should  ask  you  if  your  lordship  would 
kindly  request  the  reporters  not  to  disclose  the  name 
of  the  woman  witness  in  the  Press  reports  of  these 
proceedings.  Your  lordship  will  understand  that  the 
consequences  might  be  extremely  serious  to  her. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Pointedly — with  the  suspicion  of  a 
smile]  Well,  Mr.  Frome,  you  deliberately  took  this 
course  which  involved  bringing  her  here. 

FROME.  [With  an  ironic  bow]  If  your  lordship 
thinks  I  could  have  brought  out  the  full  facts  in  any 
other  way  ? 

THE  JUDGE.  H'm!    Well. 

FROME.  There  is  very  real  danger  to  her,  your 
lordship. 

THE  JUDGE.  You  see,  I  have  to  take  your  word  for 
all  that. 

FROME.  If  your  lordship  would  be  so  kind.  I  can 
assure  your  lordship  that  I  am  not  exaggerating. 

THE  JUDGE.  It  goes  very  much  against  the  grain 
with  me  that  the  name  of  a  witness  should  ever  be 
suppressed.  [With  a  glance  at  FALDER,  who  is  gripping 
and  clasping  his  hands  before  him,  and  then  at  RUTH, 


ACT  II 


JUSTICE  55 


who  is  sitting  perfectly  rigid  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
FALDER]  I'll  consider  your  application.  It  must  de- 
pend. I  have  to  remember  that  she  may  have  come 
here  to  commit  perjury  on  the  prisoner's  behalf. 

FROME.  Your  lordship,  I  really 

THE  JUDGE.  Yes,  yes — I  don't  suggest  anything  of 
the  sort,  Mr.  Frome.     Leave  it  at  that  for  the  moment. 
As  he  finishes  speaking,  the  jury  return,  and 
file  back  into  the  box. 

CLERK  OF  ASSIZE.  Gentlemen,  are  you  agreed  on 
your  verdict  ? 

FOREMAN.  We  are. 

CLERK  OF  ASSIZE.  Is  it  Guilty,  or  Guilty  but  in- 
sane? 

FOREMAN.  Guilty. 

The  JUDGE  nods;  then,  gathering  up  his  notes, 
sits  looking  at  FALDER,  who  stands  motion- 
less. 

FROME.  [Rising]  If  your  lordship  would  allow  me 
to  address  you  in  mitigation  of  sentence.  I  don't 
know  if  your  lordship  thinks  I  can  add  anything  to 
what  I  have  said  to  the  jury  on  the  score  of  the  prisoner's 
youth,  and  the  great  stress  under  which  he  acted. 

THE  JUDGE.  I  don't  think  you  can,  Mr.  Frome. 

FROME.  If  your  lordship  says  so — I  do  most  earnestly 
beg  your  lordship  to  give  the  utmost  weight  to  my  plea. 

[He  sits  down. 

THE  JUDGE.  [To  the  CLERK]  Call  upon  him. 

THE  CLERK.  Prisoner  at  the  bar,  you  stand  con- 
victed of  felony.  Have  you  anything  to  say  for  yourself, 


56  JUSTICE  ACT  ii 

why  the  Court  should  not  give  you  judgment  according 
to  law  ?  [FALDER  shakes  his  head. 

THE  JUDGE.  William  Falder,  you  have  been  given 
fair  trial  and  found  guilty,  in  my  opinion  rightly  found 
guilty,  of  forgery.  [He  pauses;  then,  consulting  his 
notes,  goes  on]  The  defence  was  set  up  that  you  were 
not  responsible  for  your  actions  at  the  moment  of 
committing  this  crime.  There  is  no  doubt,  I  think, 
that  this  was  a  device  to  bring  out  at  first  hand  the 
nature  of  the  temptation  to  which  you  succumbed.  For 
throughout  the  trial  your  counsel  was  in  reality  making 
an  appeal  for  mercy.  The  setting  up  of  this  defence 
of  course  enabled  him  to  put  in  some  evidence  that 
might  weigh  in  that  direction.  Whether  he  was  well 
advised  to  do  so  is  another  matter.  He  claimed  that 
you  should  be  treated  rather  as  a  patient  than  as  a 
criminal.  And  this  plea  of  his,  which  in  the  end 
amounted  to  a  passionate  appeal,  he  based  in  effect  on 
an  indictment  of  the  march  of  Justice,  which  he  prac- 
tically accused  of  confirming  and  completing  the  process 
of  criminality.  Now,  in  considering  how  far  I  should 
allow  weight  to  his  appeal,  I  have  a  number  of  factors 
to  take  into  account.  I  have  to  consider  on  the  one 
hand  the  grave  nature  of  your  offence,  the  deliberate 
way  in  which  you  subsequently  altered  the  counterfoil, 
the  danger  you  caused  to  an  innocent  man — and  that, 
to  my  mind,  is  a  very  grave  point — and  finally  I  have 
to  consider  the  necessity  of  deterring  others  from  follow- 
ing your  example.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  to  bear 
in  mind  that  you  are  young,  that  you  have  hitherto 


ACT  n  JUSTICE  57 

borne  a  good  character,  that  you  were,  if  I  am  to  believe 
your  evidence  and  that  of  your  witnesses,  in  a  state  of 
some  emotional  excitement  when  you  committed  this 
crime.  I  have  every  wish,  consistently  with  my  duty — 
not  only  to  you,  but  to  the  community — to  treat  you 
with  leniency.  And  this  brings  me  to  what  are  the 
determining  factors  in  my  mind  in  my  consideration 
of  your  case.  You  are  a  clerk  in  a  lawyer's  office — that 
is  a  very  serious  element  in  this  case;  there  can  be  no 
possible  excuse  made  for  you  on  the  ground  that  you 
were  not  fully  conversant  with  the  nature  of  the  crime 
you  were  committing,  and  the  penalties  that  attach  to  it. 
It  is  said,  however,  that  you  were  carried  away  by 
your  emotions.  The  story  has  been  told  here  to-day  of 
your  relations  with  this — er — Mrs.  Honey  will;  on  that 
story  both  the  defence  and  the  plea  for  mercy  were  in  ef- 
fect based.  Now  what  is  that  story?  It  is  that  you, 
a  young  man,  and  she,  a  young  woman,  unhappily 
married,  had  formed  an  attachment,  which  you  both 
say — with  what  truth  I  am  unable  to  gauge — had  not 
yet  resulted  in  immoral  relations,  but  which  you  both 
admit  was  about  to  result  in  such  relationship.  Your 
counsel  has  made  an  attempt  to  palliate  this,  on  the 
ground  that  the  woman  is  in  what  he  describes,  I 
think,  as  "a  hopeless  position."  As  to  that  I  can 
express  no  opinion.  She  is  a  married  woman,  and  the 
fact  is  patent  that  you  committed  this  crime  with  the 
view  of  furthering  an  immoral  design.  Now,  how- 
ever I  might  wish,  I  am  not  able  to  justify  to  my  con- 
science a  plea  for  mercy  which  has  a  basis  inimical  to 


58  JUSTICE  ACT  n 

morality.     It  is  vitiated  ab  initio,  and  would,  if  success- 
ful, free  you  for  the  completion  of  this  immoral  project. 
Your  counsel   has   made  an   attempt  to   trace  your 
offence  back  to  what  he  seems  to  suggest  is  a  defect  in 
the  marriage  law;  he  has  made  an  attempt  also  to  show 
that  to  punish  you  with  further  imprisonment  would 
jO    be  unjust.     I  do  not  follow  him  in  these  flights.     The 
U    Law  is  what  it  is — a  majestic  edifice,  sheltering  all  of  us, 
Veach  stone  of  which  rests  on  another.     I  am  concerned 
only   with   its  administration.     The   crime  you   have 
committed  is  a  very  serious  one.     I  cannot  feel  it  in 
accordance  with  my  duty  to  Society  to  exercise  the  pow- 
ers I  have  in  your  favour.     You  will  go  to  penal  servi- 
tude for  three  years. 

FALDER,  who  throughout  the  JUDGE'S  speech 
has  looked  at  him  steadily,  lets  his  head  fall 
forward  on  his  breast.  RUTH  starts  up 
from  her  seat  as  he  is  taken  out  by  the  warders. 
There  is  a  bustle  in  court. 

THE  JUDGE.  [Speaking  to  the  reporters]  Gentlemen 
of  the  Press,  I  think  that  the  name  of  the  female  witness 
should  not  be  reported. 

The  reporters  bow  their  acquiescence. 
THE  JUDGE.  [  To  RUTH,  who  is  staring  in  the  direction 
in  which  FALDER  has  disappeared]  Do  you  understand, 
your  name  will  not  be  mentioned  ? 

COKESON.  [Pulling  her  sleeve]  The  judge  is  speaking 

to  you. 

RUTH  turns,  stares  at  the  JUDGE,  and  turns 

away. 


ACT  ii  JUSTICE  59 

THE  JUDGE.  I  shall  sit  rather  late  to-day.  Call  the 
next  case. 

CLERK  OF  ASSIZE.  [To  a  warder]  Put  up  John 
Booley. 

To  cries  of  "Witnesses  in  the  case  of  Booley": 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  III 

SCENE   I 

A  prison.  A  plainly  furnished  room,  with  two  large 
barred  windows,  overlooking  the  prisoners'  exercise 
yard,  where  men,  in  yellow  clothes  marked  with 
arrows,  and  yellow  brimless  caps,  are  seen  in  single 
fie  at  a  distance  of  jour  yards  from  each  other, 
walking  rapidly  on  serpentine  white  lines  marked 
on  the  concrete  floor  of  the  yard.  Two  warders  in 
blue  uniforms,  with  peaked  caps  and  swords,  are 
stationed  amongst  them.  The  room  has  distempered 
walls,  a  bookcase  with  numerous  official-looking 
books,  a  cupboard  between  the  windows,  a  plan  of 
the  prison  on  the  wall,  a  writing-table  covered  with 
documents.  It  is  Christmas  Eve. 

The  GOVERNOR,  a  neat,  grave-looking  man,  with  a  trim, 
fair  moustache,  the  eyes  of  a  theorist,  and  grizzled 
hair,  receding  from  the  temples,  is  standing  close 
to  this  writing-table  looking  at  a  sort  of  rough  saw 
made  out  of  a  piece  of  metal.  The  hand  in  which 
he  holds  it  is  gloved,  for  two  fingers  are  missing. 
The  chief  warder,  WOODER,  a  tall,  thin,  militarij- 
61 


62  JUSTICE  ACT  m 

looking  man  of  sixty,  with  grey  moustache  and 
melancholy,  monkey-like  eyes,  stands  very  upright 
two  paces  from  him. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [With  a  faint,  abstracted  smile] 
Queer-looking  affair,  Mr.  Wooder!  Where  did  you 
find  it  ? 

WOODER.  In  his  mattress,  sir.  Haven't  come 
across  such  a  thing  for  two  years  now. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [With  curiosity]  Had  he  any  set 
plan? 

WOODER.  He'd  sawed  his  window-bar  about  that 
much.  [He  holds  up  his  thumb  and  finger  a  quarter  of 
an  inch  apart] 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I'll  see  him  this  afternoon.  What's 
his  name  ?  Moaney !  An  old  hand,  I  think  ? 

WOODER.  Yes,  sir — fourth  spell  of  penal.  You'd 
think  an  old  lag  like  him  would  have  had  more  sense 
by  now.  [With  pitying  contempt]  Occupied  his  mind, 
he  said.  Breaking  in  and  breaking  out — that's  all 
they  think  about. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Who's  next  him? 

WOODER.  O'Cleary,  sir. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  The  Irishman. 

WOODER.  Next  him  again  there's  that  young  fellow, 
Falder — star  class — and  next  him  old  Clipton. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Ah,  yes!  "The  philosopher."  I 
want  to  see  him  about  his  eyes. 

WOODER.  Curious  thing,  sir:  they  seem  to  know 
when  there's  one  of  these  tries  at  escape  going  on. 


sc.  i  JUSTICE  63 

It  makes  them  restive — there's  a  regular  wave  going 
through  them  just  now. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Meditatively]  Odd  things — those 
waves.  [Turning  to  look  at  the  prisoners  exercising] 
Seem  quiet  enough  out  here! 

WOODER.  That  Irishman,  O'Cleary,  began  banging 
on  his  door  this  morning.  Little  thing  like  that's 
quite  enough  to  upset  the  whole  lot.  They're  just 
like  dumb  animals  at  times. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I've  seen  it  with  horses  before 
thunder — it'll  run  right  through  cavalry  lines. 

The  prison  CHAPLAIN  has  entered.  He  is  a 
dark-haired,  ascetic  man,  in  clerical  undress, 
with  a  peculiarly  steady,  tight-lipped  face 
and  slow,  cultured  speech. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Holding  up  the  saw]  Seen  this, 
Miller? 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Useful-looking  specimen. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Do  for  the  Museum,  eh!  [He  goes 
to  the  cupboard  and  opens  it,  displaying  to  view  a  number 
of  quaint  ropes,  hooks,  and  metal  tools  with  labels  tied  on 
them]  That'll  do,  thanks,  Mr.  Wooder. 

WOODER.  [Saluting]  Thank  you,  sir.     [He  goes  out. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Account  for  the  state  of  the  men 
last  day  or  two,  Miller?  Seems  going  through  the 
whole  place. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  No.     I  don't  know  of  anything. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  By  the  way,  will  you  dine  with 
us  on  Christmas  Day  ? 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  To-morrow.     Thanks  very  much. 


64  JUSTICE 


ACT   III 


THE  GOVERNOR.  Worries  me  to  feel  the  men  dis- 

|]  contented.     [Gazing  at  the  saw]  Have  to  punish  this 

1  poor  devil.     Can't  help  liking  a  man  who  tries    to 

1  escape.  [He  places  the  saw  in  his  pocket  and  locks  the 

cupboard  again] 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Extraordinary  perverted  will-power 
— some  of  them.     Nothing  to  be  done  till  it's  broken. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  And   not  much  afterwards,   I'm 
afraid.     Ground  too  hard  for  golf  ? 

WOODER  comes  in  again. 

WOODER.  Visitor  who's  been  seeing  Q  3007  asks 
to  speak  to  you,  sir.     I  told  him  it  wasn't  usual. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  What  about? 
WOODER.  Shall  I  put  him  off,  sir  ? 
THE  GOVERNOR.  [Resignedly]  No,    no.     Let's     see 
him.     Don't  go,  Miller. 

WOODER  motions  to  some  one  without,  and  as 

the  visitor  comes  in  withdraws. 
The  visitor  is  COKESON,  who  is  attired  in  a  thick 
overcoat  to  the  knees,  woollen  gloves,  and 
carries  a  top  hat. 

COKESON.  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you.  I've  been 
talking  to  the  young  man. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  We  have  a  good  many  here. 

COKESON.  Name  of  Falder,  forgery.  [Producing  a 
card,  and  handing  it  to  the  GOVERNOR]  Firm  of  James 
and  Walter  How.  Well  known  in  the  law. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Receiving  the  card — with  a  faint 
smile]  What  do  you  want  to  see  me  about,  sir  ? 


sc.  i  JUSTICE  65 

COKESON.  [Suddenly  seeing  the  prisoners  at  exercise] 
Why!  what  a  sight! 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Yes,  we  have  that  privilege  from 
here;  my  office  is  being  done  up.  [Sitting  down  at  his 
table]  Now,  please! 

COKESON.  [Dragging  his  eyes  with  difficulty  from  the 
window]  I  wanted  to  say  a  word  to  you;  I  shan't  keep 
you  long.  [Confidentially]  Fact  is,  I  oughtn't  to  be 
here  by  rights.  His  sister  came  to  me — he's  got  no 
father  and  mother — and  she  was  in  some  distress. 
"My  husband  won't  let  me  go  and  see  him,"  she 
said;  "says  he's  disgraced  the  family.  And  his  other 
sister,"  she  said,  "is  an  invalid."  And  she  asked 
me  to  come.  Well,  I  take  an  interest  in  him.  He 
was  our  junior — I  go  to  the  same  chapel — and  I  didn't 
like  to  refuse.  And  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you  was,  he 
seems  lonely  here. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Not  unnaturally. 

COKESON.  I'm  afraid  it'll  prey  on  my  mind.  I  see 
a  lot  of  them  about  working  together. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Those  are  local  prisoners.  The 
convicts  serve  their  three  months  here  in  separate 
confinement,  sir. 

COKESON.  But  we  don't  want  to  be  unreasonable. 
He's  quite  downhearted.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to 
let  him  run  about  with  the  others. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [With  faint  amusement]  Ring  the 
bell — would  you,  Miller?  [To  COKESON]  You'd 
like  to  hear  what  the  doctor  says  about  him,  per- 
haps. 


66  JUSTICE 


ACT    III 


THE  CHAPLAIN.  [Ringing  the  bell]  You  are  not 
accustomed  to  prisons,  it  would  seem,  sir. 

COKESON.  No.  But  it's  a  pitiful  sight.  He's  quite 
a  young  fellow.  I  said  to  him:  "Before  a  month's 
up,"  I  said,  "you'll  be  out  and  about  with  the  others; 
it'll  be  a  nice  change  for  you."  "A  month!"  he  said 
— like  that!  "Come!"  I  said,  "we  mustn't  exaggerate. 
What's  a  month?  Why,  it's  nothing!"  "A  day,"  he 
said,  "shut  up  in  your  cell  thinking  and  brooding  as 
I  do,  it's  longer  than  a  year  outside.  I  can't  help  it," 
he  said;  "I  try — but  I'm  built  that  way,  Mr.  Cokeson." 
And  he  held  his  hand  up  to  his  face.  I  could  see  the 
tears  trickling  through  his  fingers.  It  wasn't  nice. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  He's  a  young  man  with  large, 
rather  peculiar  eyes,  isn't  he  ?  Not  Church  of  England, 
I  think? 

COKESON.  No. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  I  know. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [To  WOODER,  who  has  come  in] 
Ask  the  doctor  to  be  good  enough  to  come  here  for  a 
minute.  [WOODER  salutes,  and  goes  out]  Let's  see, 
he's  not  married  ? 

COKESON.  No.  [Confidentially]  But  there's  a  party 
he's  very  much  attached  to,  not  altogether  com-il-fo. 
It's  a  sad  story. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  If  it  wasn't  for  drink  and  women, 
sir,  this  prison  might  be  closed. 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  the  CHAPLAIN  over  his  spec- 
tacles] Ye-es,  but  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  that, 
special.  He  had  hopes  they'd  have  let  her  come 


sc.  i  JUSTICE  67 

and  see  him,  but  they  haven't.  Of  course  he  asked 
me  questions.  I  did  my  best,  but  I  couldn't  tell  the 
poor  young  fellow  a  lie,  with  him  in  here — seemed 
like  hitting  him.  But  I'm  afraid  it's  made  him  worse. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  What  was  this  news  then  ? 

COKESON.  Like  this.  The  woman  had  a  nahsty, 
spiteful  feller  for  a  husband,  and  she'd  left  him.  Fact 
is,  she  was  going  away  with  our  young  friend.  It's 
not  nice — but  I've  looked  over  it.  Well,  when  he  was 
put  in  here  she  said  she'd  earn  her  living  apart,  and 
wait  for  him  to  come  out.  That  was  a  great  con- 
solation to  him.  But  after  a  month  she  came  to  me — 
I  don't  know  her  personally — and  she  said:  "I  can't 
earn  the  children's  living,  let  alone  my  own — I've  got 
no  friends.  I'm  obliged  to  keep  out  of  everybody's 
way,  else  my  husband'd  get  to  know  where  I  was.  I'm 
very  much  reduced,"  she  said.  And  she  has  lost  flesh. 
"I'll  have  to  go  in  the  workhouse!"  It's  a  painful 
story.  I  said  to  her:  "No,"  I  said,  "not  that!  I've 
got  a  wife  an'  family,  but  sooner  than  you  should  do 
that  I'll  spare  you  a  little  myself."  "Really,"  she 
said — she's  a  nice  creature — "  I  don't  like  to  take  it  from 
you.  I  think  I'd  better  go  back  to  my  husband."  Well, 
I  know  he's  a  nahsty,  spiteful  feller — drinks — but  I 
didn't  like  to  persuade  her  not  to. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Surely,  no. 

COKESON.  Ye-es,  but  I'm  sorry  now;  it's  upset  the 
poor  young  fellow  dreadfully.  And  what  I  wanted  to 
say  was:  He's  got  his  three  years  to  serve.  I  want 
things  to  be  pleasant  for  him. 


68  JUSTICE  ACT  in 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  [With  a  touch  of  impatience]  The 
Law  hardly  shares  your  view,  I'm  afraid. 

COKESON.  But  I  can't  help  thinking  that  to  shut 
him  up  there  by  himself '11  turn  him  silly.  And  nobody 
wants  that,  I  s'pose.  I  don't  like  to  see  a  man  cry. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  It's  a  very  rare  thing  for  them  to 
give  way  like  that. 

COKESON.  [Looking  at  him — in  a  tone  of  sudden 
dogged  hostility]  I  keep  dogs. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Indeed? 

COKESON.  Ye-es.  And  I  say  this:  I  wouldn't  shut 
one  of  them  up  all  by  himself,  month  after  month,  not 
if  he'd  bit  me  all  over. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Unfortunately,  the  criminal  is  not 
a  dog;  he  has  a  sense  of  right  and  wrong. 

COKESON.  But  that's  not  the  way  to  make  him 
feel  it. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Ah!  there  I'm  afraid  we  must  differ. 

COKESON.  It's  the  same  with  dogs.  If  you  treat 
'em  with  kindness  they'll  do  anything  for  you;  but  to 
shut  'em  up  alone,  it  only  makes  'em  savage. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Surely  you  should  allow  those  who 
have  had  a  little  more  experience  than  yourself  to  know 
what  is  best  for  prisoners. 

COKESON.  [Doggedly]  I  know  this  young  feller, 
I've  watched  him  for  years.  He's  eurotic — got  no 
stamina.  His  father  died  of  consumption.  I'm 
thinking  of  his  future.  If  he's  to  be  kept  there  shut 
up  by  himself,  without  a  cat  to  keep  him  company, 
it'll  do  him  harm.  I  said  to  him:  "Where  do  you 


sc.  i  JUSTICE  69 

feel  it?"  "I  can't  tell  you,  Mr.  Cokeson,"  he  said, 
"but  sometimes  I  could  beat  my  head  against  the 
wall."  It's  not  nice. 

During  this  speech  the  DOCTOR  has  entered. 
He  is  a  medium-sized,  rather  good-looking 
man,  with  a  quick  eye.  He  stands  leaning 
against  the  window. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  This  gentleman  thinks  the  sepa- 
rate is  telling  on  Q  3007 — Falder,  young  thin  fellow, 
star  class.  What  do  you  say,  Doctor  Clements  ? 

THE  DOCTOR.  He  doesn't  like  it,  but  it's  not  doing      ' 
him  any  harm. 

COKESON.  But  he's  told  me. 

THE  DOCTOR.  Of  course  he'd  say  so,  but  we  can 
always  tell.  He's  lost  no  weight  since  he's  been 
here. 

COKESON.  It's  his  state  of  mind  I'm  speaking  of. 

THE  DOCTOR.  His  mind's  all  right  so  far.  He's 
nervous,  rather  melancholy.  I  don't  see  signs  of 
anything  more.  I'm  watching  him  carefully. 

COKESON.  [Nonplussed]  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  [More  suavely]  It's  just  at  this 
period  that  we  are  able  to  make  some  impression  on 
them,  sir.  I  am  speaking  from  my  special  stand- 
point. 

COKESON.  [Turning  bewildered  to  the  GOVERNOR] 
I  don't  want  to  be  unpleasant,  but  having  given  him 
this  news,  I  do  feel  it's  awkward. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I'll  make  a  point  of  seeing  him 
to-day. 


70  JUSTICE 


ACT  m 


COKESON.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  I  thought 
perhaps  seeing  him  every  day  you  wouldn't  notice  it. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Rather  sharply]  If  any  sign  of 
injury  to  his  health  shows  itself  his  case  will  be  reported 
at  once.  That's  fully  provided  for.  [He  rises. 

COKESON.  [Following  his  own  thoughts]  Of  course, 
what  you  don't  see  doesn't  trouble  you;  but  having 
seen  him,  I  don't  want  to  have  him  on  my  mind. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I  think  you  may  safely  leave  it  to 
us,  sir. 

COKESON.  [Mollified  and  apologetic]  I  thought  you'd 
understand  me.  I'm  a  plain  man — never  set  myself 
up  against  authority.  [Expanding  to  the  CHAPLAIN] 
Nothing  personal  meant.  GooeZ-morning. 

As  he  goes  out  the  three  officials  do  not  look  at 
each  other,  but  their  faces  wear  peculiar 
expressions. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  Our  friend  seems  to  think  that 
prison  is  a  hospital. 

COKESON.  [Returning  suddenly  with  an  apologetic  air] 
There's  just  one  little  thing.  This  woman — I  sup- 
pose I  mustn't  ask  you  to  let  him  see  her.  It'd  be 
a  rare  treat  for  them  both.  He's  thinking  about  her 
all  the  time.  Of  course  she's  not  his  wife.  But  he's 
quite  safe  in  here.  They're  a  pitiful  couple.  You 
couldn't  make  an  exception  ? 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Wearily]  As  you  say,  my  dear 
sir,  I  couldn't  make  an  exception;  he  won't  be  al- 
lowed another  visit  of  any  sort  till  he  goes  to  a  convict 
prison. 


sc.  n  JUSTICE  71 

COKESON.  I    see.     [Rather    coldly]    Sorry    to   have 

troubled  you.  [He  again  goes  out. 

THE  CHAPLAIN.  [Shrugging  his  shoulders]  The  plain 

man    indeed,    poor    fellow.     Come    and    have    some 

lunch,  Clements? 

He  and  the  DOCTOR  go  out  talking. 
The  GOVERNOR,  with  a  sigh,  sits  down  at  his 
table  and  takes  up  a  pen. 

The  curtain  falls. 


SCENE  II 

Part  of  the  ground  corridor  of  the  prison.  The  walls 
are  coloured  with  greenish  distemper  up  to  a  stripe 
of  deeper  green  about  the  height  of  a  man's  shoulder, 
and  above  this  line  are  whitewashed.  The  floor  is 
of  blackened  stones.  Daylight  is  filtering  through  a 
heavily  barred  window  at  the  end.  The  doors  of 
four  cells  are  visible.  Each  cell  door  has  a  little 
round  peep-hole  at  the  level  of  a  man's  eye,  covered 
by  a  little  round  disc,  which,  raised  upwards,  affords 
a  view  of  the  cell.  On  the  wall,  close  to  each  cell 
door,  hangs  a  little  square  board  with  the  prisoner's 
name,  number,  and  record. 

Overhead  can  be  seen  the  iron  structures  of  the  first-floor 
and  second-floor  corridors. 

The  WARDER  INSTRUCTOR,  a  bearded  man  in  blue 
uniform,  with  an  apron,  and  some  dangling  keys, 
is  just  emerging  from  one  of  the  cells. 


72  JUSTICE 


ACT   III 


INSTRUCTOR.  [Speaking  from  the  door  into  the  celt\ 
I'll  have  another  bit  for  you  when  that's  finished. 

O'CLEARY.  [Unseen — in  an  Irish  voice]  Little  doubt 
o'  that,  sirr. 

INSTRUCTOR.  [Gossiping]  Well,    you'd    rather   have 
it  than  nothing,  I  s'pose. 

O'CLEARY.  An'  that's  the  blessed  truth. 

Sounds  are  heard  of  a  cell  door  being  closed  and 

locked,  and  of  approaching  footsteps. 
INSTRUCTOR.  [In  a  sharp,  changed  voice]  Look  alive 
over  it! 

He  shuts  the  cell  door,  and  stands  at  attention. 
The    GOVERNOR    comes    walking    down    the 

corridor,  followed  by  WOODER. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Anything  to  report  ? 
INSTRUCTOR.  [Saluting]  Q    3007    [he    points    to    a 
cell]  is  behind  with  his  work,  sir.     He'll  lose  marks 
to-day. 

The  GOVERNOR  nods  and  passes  on  to  the  end 

cell.     The  INSTRUCTOR  goes  away. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  This  is  our  maker  of  saws,  isn't 
it? 

He  takes  the  saw  from  his  pocket  as  WOODER 
throws  open  the  door  of  the  cell.  The  convict 
MOANEY  is  seen  lying  on  his  bed,  athwart 
the  cell,  with  his  cap  on.  He  springs  up  and 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  cell.  He  is  a 
raw-boned  fellow,  about  fifty-six  years  old, 
with  outstanding  bat's  ears  and  fierce, 
staring,  steel-coloured  eyes. 


sc.  ii  JUSTICE  73 

WOODER.  Cap  off!  [MOANEY  removes  his  cap] 
Out  here!  [MOANEY  comes  to  the  door. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Beckoning  him  out  into  the  corri- 
dor, and  holding  up  the  saw — with  the  manner  of  an 
officer  speaking  to  a  private]  Anything  to  say  about  this, 
my  man  ?  [MOANEY  is  silent]  Come ! 

MOANEY.  It  passed  the  time. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Pointing  into  the  cell]  Not  enough 
to  do,  eh? 

MOANEY.  It  don't  occupy  your  mind. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Tapping  the  saw]  You  might  find 
a  better  way  than  this. 

MOANEY.  [Sullenly]  Well!  What  way?  I  must 
keep  my  hand  in  against  the  time  I  get  out.  What's 
the  good  of  anything  else  to  me  at  my  time  of  life  ? 
[With  a  gradual  change  to  civility,  as  his  tongue  warms] 
Ye  know  that,  sir.  I'll  be  in  again  within  a  year  or 
two,  after  I've  done  this  lot.  I  don't  want  to  disgrace 
meself  when  I'm  out.  You've  got  your  pride  keeping 
the  prison  smart;  well,  I've  got  mine.  [Seeing  that 
the  GOVERNOR  is  listening  with  interest,  he  goes  on, 
pointing  to  the  saw]  I  must  be  doin'  a  little  o'  this. 
It's  no  harm  to  any  one.  I  was  five  weeks  makin'  that 
saw — a  bit  of  all  right  it  is,  too;  now  I'll  get  cells,  I 
suppose,  or  seven  days'  bread  and  water.  You  can't 
help  it,  sir,  I  know  that — I  quite  put  meself  in  your 
place. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Now,  look  here,  Moaney,  if  I  pass 
it  over  will  you  give  me  your  word  not  to  try  it  on 


74  JUSTICE 


ACT  m 


again  ?  Think !  [He  goes  into  the  cell,  walks  to  the  end 
of  it,  mounts  the  stool,  and  tries  the  ivindow-bars] 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Returning]  Well  ? 

MOANEY.  [Who  has  been  reflecting]  I've  got  another 
six  weeks  to  do  in  here,  alone.  I  can't  do  it  and 
think  o'  nothing.  I  must  have  something  to  interest  me. 

(You've  made  me  a  sporting  offer,  sir,  but  I  can't 
pass  my  word  about  it.  I  shouldn't  like  to  deceive 
a  gentleman.  [Pointing  into  the  celt]  Another  four 
hours'  steady  work  would  have  done  it. 

THE   GOVERNOR.  Yes,   and   what   then?    Caught, 
brought  back,  punishment.     Five  weeks'  hard  work 
to  make  this,  and  cells  at  the  end  of  it,  while  they 
put  a  new  bar  to  your  window.     Is  it  worth  it,  Moaney  ? 
MOANEY.  [With  a  sort  of  fierceness]  Yes,  it  is. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  [Putting  his  hand  to  his  brow]  Oh, 
well!    Two  days'  cells — bread  and  water. 
MOANEY.  Thank  'e,  sir. 

He  turns  quickly  like  an  animal  and  slips  into 

his  cell. 

The  GOVERNOR  looks  after  him  and  shakes 
his  head  as  WOODER  closes  and  locks  the 
cell  door. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Open  Clipton's  cell. 

WOODER  opens  the  door  of  CLIPTON'S  cell. 
CLIFTON  is  sitting  on  a  stool  just  inside  the 
door,  at  work  on  a  pair  of  trousers.  He  is 
a  small,  thick,  oldish  man,  with  an  almost 
shaven  head,  and  smouldering  little  dark 
eyes  behind  smoked  spectacles.  He  gets  up 


sc.  ii  JUSTICE  75 

and  stands  motionless  in  the  doorway,  peer- 
ing at  his  visitors. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Beckoning]  Come  out  here  a  min- 
ute, Clipton. 

CLIFTON,  with  a  sort  of  dreadful  quietness, 
comes  into  the  corridor,  the  needle  and  thread 
in  his  hand.  The  GOVERNOR  signs  to 
WOODER,  who  goes  into  the  cell  and  inspects 
it  carefully. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  How  are  your  eyes  ? 
CLIPTON.  I  don't  complain  of  them.  I  don't  see 
the  sun  here.  [He  makes  a  stealthy  movement,  protruding 
his  neck  a  little]  There's  just  one  thing,  Mr.  Governor, 
as  you're  speaking  to  me.  I  wish  you'd  ask  the  cove 
next  door  here  to  keep  a  bit  quieter. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  What's  the  matter  ?  I  don't  want 
any  tales,  Clipton. 

CLIPTON.  He  keeps  me  awake.  I  don't  know  who 
he  is.  [With  contempt]  One  of  this  star  class,  I  expect. 
Oughtn't  to  be  here  with  us. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Quietly]  Quite  right,  Clipton. 
He'll  be  moved  when  there's  a  cell  vacant. 

CLIPTON.  He  knocks  about  like  a  wild  beast  in 

the  early   morning.     I'm  not  used   to   it — stops  me 

getting  my  sleep  out.     In  the  evening  too.     It's  not 

fair,  Mr.  Governor,  as  you're  speaking  to  me.     Sleep's 

the  comfort  I've  got  here;  I'm  entitled  to  take  it  out  full. 

WOODER  comes  out  of  the  cell,  and  instantly,  as 

though  extinguished,  CLIPTON  moves  with 

stealthy  suddenness  back  into  his  cell. 


76  JUSTICE  ACT  in 

WOODER.  All  right,  sir. 

The  GOVERNOR  nods.   The  door  is  closed  and 

locked. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Which  is  the  man  who  banged  on 
his  door  this  morning  ? 

WOODER.  [Going  towards  O'CLE ART'S  celt\  This  one, 
sir;  O'Cleary. 

He  lifts  the  disc  and  glances  through  the  peep- 
hole. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Open. 

WOODER  throws  open  the  door.  O'CLEARY, 
who  is  seated  at  a  little  table  by  the  door  as 
if  listening,  springs  up  and  stands  at  atten- 
tion just  inside  the  doorway.  He  is  a  broad- 
faced,  middle-aged  man,  with  a  wide,  thin, 
flexible  mouth,  and  little  holes  under  his 
high  cheek-bones. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Where's  the  joke,  O'Cleary  ? 
O'CLEARY.  The  joke,  your  honour?    I've  not  seen 
one  for  a  long  time. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Banging  on  your  door  ? 
O'CLEARY.  Oh!  that! 
THE  GOVERNOR.  It's  womanish. 
O'CLEARY.  An'   it's   that   I'm   becoming  this   two 
months  past. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Anything  to  complain  of  ? 
O'CLEARY.  No,  sirr. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You're  an  old  hand;  you  ought  to 
know  better. 

O'CLEARY.  Yes,  I've  been  through  it  all. 


SC.    II 


JUSTICE  77 


THE  GOVERNOR.  You've  got  a  youngster  next 
door;  you'll  upset  him. 

O'CLEARY.  It  cam'  over  me,  your  honour.  I  can't 
always  be  the  same  steady  man. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Work  all  right  ? 

O'CLEARY.  [Taking  up  a  rush  inat  he  is  making] 
Oh!  I  can  do  it  on  me  head.  It's  the  miserablest 
stuff — don't  take  the  brains  of  a  mouse.  [Working 
his  mouth]  It's  here  I  feel  it — the  want  of  a  little  noise — 
a  terrible  little  wud  ease  me. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  if 
you  were  out  in  the  shops  you  wouldn't  be  allowed 
to  talk. 

O'CLEARY.  [With  a  look  of  profound  meaning]  Not 
with  my  mouth. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Well,  then  ? 

O'CLEARY.  But  it's  the  great  conversation  I'd  have. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [With  a  smile]  W'ell,  no  more 
conversation  on  your  door. 

O'CLEARY.  No,  sirr,  I  wud  not  have  the  little  wit 
to  repeat  meself. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Turning]  Good-night. 

O'CLEARY.  Good-night,  your  honour. 

He  turns  into  his  cell.     The  GOVERNOR  shuts 
the  door. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Looking  at  the  record  card]  Can't 
help  liking  the  poor  blackguard. 

WOODER.  He's  an  amiable  man,  sir. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Pointing  down  the  corridor]  Ask 
the  doctor  to  come  here,  Mr.  Wooder. 


78  JUSTICE  ACT  in 

WOODER   salutes   and  goes  away   down   the 

corridor. 

The  GOVERNOR  goes  to  the  door  of  FALDER'S 
cell.  He  raises  his  uninjured  hand  to  un- 
cover the  peep-hole;  but,  without  uncovering 
it,  shakes  his  head  and  drops  his  hand;  then, 
after  scrutinising  the  record  board,  he  opens 
the  cell  door.  FALDER,  who  is  standing 
against  it,  lurches  forward. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Beckoning  him  out]  Now  tell  me: 
can't  you  settle  down,  Falder  ? 

FALDER.  [In  a  breathless  voice]  Yes,  sir. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  You  know  what  I  mean  ?    It's  no 
good  running  your  head  against  a  stone  wall,  is  it  ? 
FALDER.  No,  sir. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Well,  come. 
FALDER.  I  try,  sir. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  Can't  you  sleep? 
FALDER.  Very    little.     Between    two    o'clock    and 
getting  up's  the  worst  time. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  How's  that  ? 
FALDER.  [His  lips  twitch  with  a  sort  of  smile]  I  don't 
know,  sir.     I  was  always  nervous.     [Suddenly  voluble] 
Everything  seems  to  get  such  a  size  then.     I  feel  I'll 
never  get  out  as  long  as  I  live. 

THE    GOVERNOR.  That's    morbid,    my    lad.    Pull 
yourself  together. 

FALDER.  [With  an  equally  sudden  dogged  resentment] 

Yes — I've  got  to 

THE  GOVERNOR.    Think  of  all  these  other  fellows  ? 


sc.  n  JUSTICE  79 

FALDER.  They're  used  to  it. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  They  all  had  to  go  through  it 
once  for  the  first  time,  just  as  you're  doing  now. 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir,  I  shall  get  to  be  like  them  in      — »- 
time,  I  suppose. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Rather  taken  aback]  H'm!  Well! 
That  rests  with  you.  Now  come.  Set  your  mind 
to  it,  like  a  good  fellow.  You're  still  quite  young. 
A  man  can  make  himself  what  he  likes. 

FALDER.  [Wistfully]  Yes,  sir. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Take  a  good  hold  of  yourself.  Do 
you  read  ? 

FALDER.  I  don't  take  the  words  in.  [Hanging  his 
head]  I  know  it's  no  good;  but  I  can't  help  think- 
ing of  what's  going  on  outside.  In  my  cell  I  can't 
see  out  at  all.  It's  thick  glass,  sir. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You've  had  a  visitor.     Bad  news  ? 

FALDER.  Yes. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You  mustn't  think  about  it. 

FALDER.  [Looking  back  at  his  cell]  How  can  I  help 
it,  sir? 

He  suddenly  becomes  motionless  as  WOODER 
and  the  DOCTOR  approach.  The  GOVERNOR 
motions  to  him  to  go  back  into  his  cell. 

FALDER.  [Quick  and  low]  I'm  quite  right  in  my 
head,  sir.  [He  goes  back  into  his  cell. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [To  the  DOCTOR]  Just  go  in  and 
see  him,  Clements. 

The  DOCTOR  goes  into  the  cell.  The  GOVER- 
NOR pushes  the  door  to,  nearly  closing  it,  and 
walks  towards  the  window. 


80  JUSTICE 


ACT    III 


WOODER.  [Following]  Sorry  you  should  be  troubled 
like  this,  sir.  Very  contented  lot  of  men,  on  the 
whole. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [Shortly]  You  think  so  ? 

WOODER.  Yes,  sir.  It's  Christmas  doing  it,  in  my 
opinion. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  [To  himself]  Queer,  that! 

WOODER.  Beg  pardon,  sir? 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Christmas! 

He  turns  towards  the  window,  leaving  WOODER 
looking  at  him  with  a  sort  of  pained  anxiety. 

WOODER.  [Suddenly]  Do  you  think  we  make  show 
enough,  sir  ?  If  you'd  like  us  to  have  more  holly  ? 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Not  at  all,  Mr.  Wooder. 

WOODER.  Very  good,  sir. 

The  DOCTOR  has  come  out  of  F  ALDER'S  cell, 
and  the  GOVERNOR  beckons  to  him. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Well  ? 

THE  DOCTOR.  I  can't  make  anything  much  of  him. 
He's  nervous,  of  course. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  Is  there  any  sort  of  case  to  report  ? 
Quite  frankly,  Doctor. 

THE  DOCTOR.  Well,  I  don't  think  the  separate's 
doing  him  any  good;  but  then  I  could  say  the  same 
of  a  lot  of  them — they'd  get  on  better  in  the  shops, 
there's  no  doubt. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  You  mean  you'd  have  to  recom- 
mend others  ? 

THE  DOCTOR.  A  dozen  at  least.  It's  on  his  nerves. 
There's  nothing  tangible.  That  fellow  there  [point- 
ing to  O'CLEARY'S  cell],  for  instance — feels  it  just  as 


sc.  in  JUSTICE  81 

much,  in  his  way.  If  I  once  get  away  from  physical 
facts — I  shan't  know  where  I  am.  Conscientiously, 
sir,  I  don't  know  how  to  differentiate  him.  He  hasn't 
lost  weight.  Nothing  wrong  with  his  eyes.  His  pulse 
is  good.  Talks  all  right. 

THE  GOVERNOR.     It  doesn't  amount  to  melancholia  ? 

THE  DOCTOR.  [Shaking  his  head]  I  can  report  on 

him  if  you  like;  but  if  I  do  I  ought  to  report  on  others. 

THE  GOVERNOR.  I  see.     [Looking  towards  FALDER'S 

cell]  The  poor  devil  must  just  stick  it  then. 

As  he  says  this  he  looks  absently  at  WOODER. 
WOODER.  Beg  pardon,  sir  ? 

For  answer  the  GOVERNOR  stares  at  him,  turns 
on  his  heel,  and  walks  away.     There  is  a 
sound  as  of  beating  on  metal. 
THE  GOVERNOR.  [Stopping]  Mr.  Wooder? 
WOODER.  Banging  on  his  door,  sir.     I  thought  we 
should  have  more  of  that. 

He  hurries  forward,  passing  the  GOVERNOR, 
who  follows  closely. 

The  curtain  falls. 

SCENE   III 

FALDER'S  cell,  a  whitewashed  space  thirteen  feet  broad 
by  seven  deep,  and  nine  feet  high,  with  a  rounded 
ceiling.  The  floor  is  of  shiny  blackened  bricks. 
The  barred  window  of  opaque  glass,  with  a  ventila- 
tor, is  high  up  in  the  middle  of  the  end  wall.  In  the 


82  JUSTICE 


ACT  m 


middle  of  the  opposite  end  wall  is  the  narrow  door. 
In  a  corner  are  the  mattress  and  bedding  rolled 
up  (two  blankets,  two  sheets,  and  a  coverlet).  Above 
them  is  a  quarter-circular  wooden  shelf,  on  which  is 
a  Bible  and  several  little  devotional  books,  piled  in 
a  symmetrical  pyramid;  there  are  also  a  black  hair- 
brush, tooth-brush,  and  a  bit  of  soap.  In  another 
corner  is  the  wooden  frame  of  a  bed,  standing  on 
end.  There  is  a  dark  ventilator  under  the  window, 
and  another  over  the  door.  FALDER'S  work  (a 
shirt  to  which  he  is  putting  buttonholes)  is  hung  to  a 
nail  on  the  wall  over  a  small  wooden  table,  on  which 
the  novel  "Lojm&JDoone"  lies  open.  Low  down 
in  the  corner  by  the  door  is  a  thick  glass  screen,  about 
a  foot  square,  covering  the  gas-jet  let  into  the  wall. 
There  is  also  a  wooden  stool,  and  a  pair  of  shoes 
beneath  it.  Three  bright  round  tins  are  set  under 
the  window. 

In  fast-failing  daylight,  FALDER,  in  his  stockings,  is  seen 
standing  motionless,  with  his  head  inclined  towards 
the  door,  listening.  He  moves  a  little  closer  to  the 
door,  his  stockinged  feet  making  no  noise.  He 
stops  at  the  door.  He  is  trying  harder  and  harder 
to  hear  something,  any  little  thing  that  is  going  on 
outside.  He  springs  suddenly  upright — as  if  at  a 
sound — and  remains  perfectly  motionless.  Then, 
with  a  heavy  sigh,  he  moves  to  his  work,  and  stands 
looking  at  it,  with  his  head  down;  he  does  a  stitch 
or  two,  having  the  air  of  a  man  so  lost  in  sadness 


sc.  in  JUSTICE  83 

that  each  stitch  is,  as  it  were,  a  coming  to  life.  Then 
turning  abruptly,  he  begins  pacing  the  cell,  moving 
his  head,  like  an  animal  pacing  its  cage.  He  stops 
again  at  the  door,  listens,  and,  placing  the  palms  of 
his  hands  against  it  with  his  fingers  spread  out,  leans 
his  forehead  against  the  iron.  Turning  from  it, 
presently,  he  moves  slowly  back  towards  the  window, 
tracing  his  way  with  his  finger  along  the  top  line 
of  the  distemper  that  runs  round  the  wall.  He 
stops  under  the  window,  and,  picking  up  the  lid  of 
one  of  the  tins,  peers  into  it.  It  has  grown  very 
nearly  dark.  Suddenly  the  lid  falls  out  of  his  hand 
with  a  clatter — the  only  sound  that  has  broken  the 
silence — and  he  stands  staring  intently  at  the  wall 
where  the  stuff  of  the  shirt  is  hanging  rather  white 
in  the  darkness — he  seems  to  be  seeing  somebody  or 
something  there.  There  is  a  sharp  tap  and  click; 
the  cell  light  behind  the  glass  screen  has  been  turned 
up.  The  cett  is  brightly  lighted.  FALDER  is  seen 
gasping  for  breath. 

A  sound  from  far  away,  as  of  distant,  dull  beating  on 
thick  metal,  is  suddenly  audible.  FALDER  shrinks 
back,  not  able  to  bear  this  sudden  clamour.  But  the  ' 
sound  grows,  as  though  some  great  tumbril  were 
rolling  towards  the  cell.  And  gradually  it  seems  to 
hypnotise  him.  He  begins  creeping  inch  by  inch 
nearer  to  the  door.  The  banging  sound,  travelling 
from  cell  to  cell,  draws  closer  and  closer;  FALDER'S 
hands  are  seen  moving  as  if  his  spirit  had  already 


84  JUSTICE 


ACT    III 


joined  in  this  beating,  and  the  sound  swells  tiU  it 
seems  to  have  entered  the  very  cell.  He  suddenly 
raises  his  clenched  fists.  Panting  violently,  he 
flings  himself  at  his  door,  and  beats  on  it. 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  IV 

The  scene  is  again  COKESON'S  room,  at  a  few  minutes  to 
ten  of  a  March  morning,  two  years  later.  The  doors 
are  all  open.  SWEEDLE,  now  blessed  with  a  sprout- 
ing moustache,  is  getting  the  offices  ready.  He 
arranges  papers  on  COKESON'S  table;  then  goes  to  a 
covered  washstand,  raises  the  lid,  and  looks  at  him- 
self in  the  mirror.  While  he  is  gazing  his  fill 
RUTH  HONEYWILL  comes  in  through  the  outer 
office  and  stands  in  the  doorway.  There  seems  a 
kind  of  exultation  and  excitement  behind  her  ha- 
bitual impassivity. 

SWEEDLE.  [Suddenly  seeing  her,  and  dropping  the 
lid  of  the  washstand  with  a  bang}  Hello!  It's  you! 

RUTH.  Yes. 

SWEEDLE.  There's  only  me  here!  They  don't 
waste  their  time  hurrying  down  in  the  morning.  Why, 
it  must  be  two  years  since  we  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you.  [Nervously]  What  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself  ? 

RUTH.  [Sardonically]  Living. 

SWEEDLE.  [Impressed]  If  you  want  to  see  him 
[he  points  to  COKESON'S  chair],  he'll  be  here  directly 
— never  misses — not  much.  [Delicately]  I  hope  our 
85 


86  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

friend's  back  from  the  country.  His  time's  been  up 
these  three  months,  if  I  remember.  [RUTH  nods]  I 
was  awful  sorry  about  that.  The  governor  made  a 
mistake — if  you  ask  me. 

RUTH.  He  did. 

SWEEDLE.  He  ought  to  have  given  him  a  chanst. 
And,  7  say,  the  judge  ought  to  ha'  let  him  go  after  that. 
They've  forgot  what  human  nature's  like.  Whereas 
we  know.  RUTH  gives  him  a  honeyed  smile. 

SWEEDLE.  They  come  down  on  you  like  a  cartload 
of  bricks,  flatten  you  out,  and  when  you  don't  swell 
up  again  they  complain  of  it.  I  know  'em — seen  a 
lot  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  my  time.  [He  shakes  his 
head  in  the  plenitude  of  wisdom]  Why,  only  the  other 

day  the  governor 

Bui  COKESON  has  come  in  through  the  outer 
office;  brisk  with  east  wind,  and  decidedly 
greyer. 

COKESON.  [Drawing  off  his  coat  and  gloves]  Why! 
it's  you!  [Then  motioning  SWEEDLE  out,  and  closing 
the  door]  Quite  a  stranger!  Must  be  two  years. 
D'you  want  to  see  me?  I  can  give  you  a  minute. 
Sit  down !  Family  well  ? 

RUTH.  Yes.     I'm  not  living  where  I  was. 

COKESON.  [Eyeing  her  askance]  I  hope  things  are 
more  comfortable  at  home. 

RUTH.     I  couldn't  stay  with  Honeywill,  after  all. 

COKESON.  You  haven't  done  anything  rash,  I  hope. 
I  should  be  sorry  if  you'd  done  anything  rash. 

RUTH.  I've  kept  the  children  with  me. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  87 

COKESON.  [Beginning  to  feel  that  things  are  not  so 
jolly  as  he  had  hoped]  Well,  I'm  glad  to  have  seen 
you.  You've  not  heard  from  the  young  man,  I  sup- 
pose, since  he  came  out  ? 

RUTH.  Yes,  I  ran  across  him  yesterday.  « 

COKESON.  I  hope  he's  well. 

RUTH.  [With  sudden  fierceness]  He  can't  get  any- 
thing to  do.  It's  dreadful  to  see  him.  He's  just 
skin  and  bone. 

COKESON.  [With  genuine  concern]  Dear  me!  I'm 
sorry  to  hear  that.  [On  his  guard  again]  Didn't  they 
find  him  a  place  when  his  time  was  up? 

RUTH.  He  was  only  there  three  weeks.  It  got 
out. 

COKESON.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do  for 
you.  I  don't  like  to  be  snubby. 

RUTH.  I  can't  bear  his  being  like  that. 

COKESON.  [Scanning  her  not  unprosperous  figure]  I 
know  his  relations  aren't  very  forthy  about  him.  Per- 
haps you  can  do  something  for  him,  till  he  finds  his 
feet. 

RUTH.  Not  now.     I  could  have — but  not  now. 

COKESON.  I  don't  understand. 

RUTH.  [Proudly]  I've  seen  hirp  again — that's  all 
over. 

COKESON.  [Staring  at  her — disturbed]  I'm  a  family        ,  'n 
man — I    don't    want    to    hear    anything    unpleasant. 
Excuse  me — I'm  very  busy. 

RUTH.  I'd  have  gone  home  to  my  people  in  the 
country  long  ago,  but  they've  never  got  over  me  marry- 


88  JUSTICE 


ACT    IV 


ing  Honeywill.  I  never  was  waywise,  Mr.  Cokeson, 
but  I'm  proud.  I  was  only  a  girl,  you  see,  when  I 
married  him.  I  thought  the  world  of  him,  of  course 
...  he  used  to  come  travelling  to  our  farm. 

COKESON.  [Regretfully]  I  did  hope  you'd  have  got 
on  better,  afj(ex^oii~saw-jaei_  ? 

RUTH.  He  used  me  worse  than  ever.  He  couldn't 
break  my  nerve,  but  I  lost  my  health;  and  then  he 
began  knocking  the  children  about.  ...  I  couldn't 
stand  that.  I  wouldn't  go  back  now,  if  he  were 
dying. 

COKESON.  [Who  has  risen  and  is  shifting  about  as 
though  dodging  a  stream  of  lava]  We  mustn't  be  violent, 
must  we  ? 

RUTH.  [Smouldering]  A  man  that  can't  behave 
better  than  that [There  is  silence. 

COKESON.  [Fascinated  in  spite  of  himself]  Then  there 
you  were !  And  what  did  you  do  then  ? 

RUTH.  [With  a  shrug]  Tried  the  same  as  when  I  left 
him  before  .  .  .  making  skirts  .  .  .  cheap  things.  It 
was  the  best  I  could  get,  but  I  never  made  more  than 
ten  shillings  a  week,  buying  my  own  cotton  and  working 
all  day;  I  hardly  ever  got  to  bed  till  past  twelve.  I  kept 
at  it  for  nine  months.  [Fiercely]  Well,  I'm  not  fit  for 
that;  I  wasn't  made  for  it.  I'd  rather  die. 

COKESON.  My  dear  woman!  We  mustn't  talk  like 
that. 

RUTH.  It  was  starvation  for  the  children  too — after 
what  they'd  always  had.  I  soon  got  not  to  care.  I 
used  to  be  too  tired.  [She  is  silent. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  89 

COKESON.  [With  fearful  curiosity]  Why,  what  hap- 
pened then  ? 

RUTH.  [With  a  laugh]  My  employer  happened 
then — he's  happened  ever  since. 

COKESON.  Dear!  Oh  dear!  I  never  came  across  a 
thing  like  this. 

RUTH.  [Dully]  He's  treated  me  all  right.  But 
I've  done^wjththat.  [Suddenly  her  lips  begin  to 
quiver,  and  she  hides  them  with  the  back  of  her  hand] 
I  never  thought  I'd  see  hjjn  again,  you  see.  It  was 
just  a  chance  I  met  him  by  Hyde  Park.  We  went  in 
there  and  sat  down,  and  he  told  me  all  about  himself. 
Oh!  Mr.  Cokeson,  give  him  another  chance. 

COKESON.  [Greatly  disturbed]  Then  you've  both  lost 
your  livings!  What  a  horrible  position! 

RUTH.  If  he  could  only  get  here — where  there's 
nothing  to  find  out  about  him! 

COKESON.  We  can't  have  anything  derogative  to  the 
firm. 

RUTH.  I've  no  one  else  to  go  to. 

COKESON.  I'll  speak  to  the  partners,  but  I  don't 
think  they'll  take  him,  under  the  circumstances.  I 
don't  really. 

RUTH.  He  came  with  me;  he's  down  there  in  the 
street.  [She  points  to  the  window. 

COKESON.  [On  his  dignity]  He  shouldn't  have  done 
that  until  he's  sent  for.  [Then  softening  at  the  look  on 
her  face]  We've  got  a  vacancy,  as  it  happens,  but  I 
can't  promise  anything. 

RUTH.  It  would  be  the  saving  of  him. 


90  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

COKESON.  Well,  I'll  do  what  I  can,  but  I'm  not 
sanguine.  Now  tell  him  that  I  don't  want  him  till 
I  see  how  things  are.  Leave  your  address  ?  [Repeat- 
ing her]  83  Mullingar  Street  ?  [He  notes  it  on  blotting- 
paper]  Good-morning. 

RUTH.  Thank  you. 

She  moves  towards  the  door,  turns  as  if  to 
speak,  bid  does  not,  and  goes  away. 

COKESON.  [Wiping  his  head  and  forehe'ad  with  a 
large  white  cotton  handkerchief]  What  a  business! 
Then  looking  amongst  his  papers,  he  sounds  his  bell. 
SWEEDLE  answers  it] 

COKESON.  Was  that  young  Richards  coming  here 
to-day  after  the  clerk's  place  ? 

SWEEDLE.  Yes. 

COKESON.  Well,  keep  him  in  the  air;  I  don't  want 
to  see  him  yet. 

SWEEDLE.  What  shall  I  tell  him,  sir? 

COKESON.  [With  asperity]  Invent  something.  Use 
your  brains.  Don't  stump  him  off  altogether. 

SWEEDLE.  Shall  I  tell  him  that  we've  got  illness, 
sir? 

COKESON.  No!  Nothing  untrue.  Say  I'm  not  here 
to-day. 

SWEEDLE.  Yes,  sir.     Keep  him  hankering? 

COKESON.  Exactly.  And  look  here.  You  remem- 
ber Falder?  I  may  be  having  him  round  to  see  me. 
Now,  treat  him  like  you'd  have  him  treat  you  in  a 
similar  position. 

SWEEDLE.  I  naturally  should  do. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  91 

COKESON.  That's  right.  When  a  man's  down 
never  hit  'im.  'Tisn't  necessary.  Give  him  a  hand 
up.  That's  a  metaphor  I  recommend  to  you  in  life. 
It's  sound  policy. 

SWEEDLE.  Do  you  think  the  governors  will  take 
him  on  again,  sir? 

COKESON.  Can't  say  anything  about  that.  [At  the 
sound  of  some  one  having  entered  the  outer  office]  Who's 
there? 

SWEEDLE.  [Going  to  the  door  and  looking]  It's 
Falder,  sir. 

COKESON.  [Vexed]  Dear  me!    That's  very  naughty 

of  her.     Tell  him  to  call  again.     I  don't  want 

He  breaks  off  as  FALDER  comes  in.  FALDER 
is  thin,  pale,  older,  his  eyes  have  grown 
more  restless.  His  clothes  are  very  worn 
and  loose. 

SWEEDLE,  nodding  cheerfully,  withdraws. 

COKESON.  Glad  to  see  you.     You're  rather  previous. 

[Trying  to  keep  things  pleasant]  Shake  hands!     She's 

striking  while  the  iron's  hot.  [He  wipes  his  forehead] 

I  don't  blame  her.     She's  anxious. 

FALDER  timidly  takes  COKESON'S  hand  and 

glances  towards  the  partners'  door. 
COKESON.  No — not  yet!    Sit  down!    [FALDER  sits 
in  the  chair  at  the  side  of  COKESON'S  table,  on  which  he 
places  his  cap]     Now  you  are  here  I'd  like  you  to 
give   me   a   little   account   of   yourself.     [Looking   at 
him  over  his  spectacles]  How's  your  health? 
FALDER.  I'm  alive,  Mr.  Cokeson. 


92  JUSTICE 


ACT   IV 


COKESON.  [Preoccupied]  I'm  glad  to  hear  that. 
About  this  matter.  I  don't  like  doing  anything  out 
of  the  ordinary;  it's  not  my  habit.  I'm  a  plain  man, 
and  I  want  everything  smooth  and  straight.  But  I 
promised  your  friend  to  speak  to  the  partners,  and  I 
always  keep  my  word. 

FALDER.  I  just  want  a  chance,  Mr.  Cokeson.  I've 
paid  for  that  job  a  thousand  times  and  more.  I 
have,  sir.  No  one  knows.  They  say  I  weighed 
more  when  I  came  out  than  when  I  went  in.  They 
couldn't  weigh  me  here  [he  touches  his  head]  or  here 
[he  touches  his  heart,  and  gives  a  sort  of  laugh].  Till 
last  night  I'd  have  thought  there  was  nothing  in  here 
at  all. 

COKESON.  [Concerned]  You've  not  got  heart  disease  ? 

FALDER.  Oh!  they  passed  me  sound  enough. 

COKESON.  But  they  got  you  a  place,  didn't  they? 

FALDER.  Yes;  very  good  people,  knew  all  about 
it — very  kind  to  me.  I  thought  I  was  going  to  get 
on  first  rate.  But  one  day,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  other 
clerks  got  wind  of  it.  ...  I  couldn't  stick  it,  Mr. 
Cokeson,  I  couldn't,  sir. 

COKESON.  Easy,  my  dear  fellow,  easy! 

FALDER.  I  had  one  small  job  after  that,  but  it 
didn't  last. 

COKESON.  How  was  that? 

FALDER.  It's  no  good  deceiving  you,  Mr.  Cokeson. 
The  fact  is,  I  seem  to  be  struggling  against  a  thing 
that's  all  round  me.  I  can't  explain  it:  it's  as  if  I 
was  in  a  net;  as  fast  as  I  cut  it  here,  it  grows  up  there. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  93 

I  didn't  act  as  I  ought  to  have,  about  references;  but 
what  are  you  to  do  ?  You  must  have  them.  And  that 
made  me  afraid,  and  I  left.  In  fact,  I'm — I'm  afraid  all 
the  time  now. 

He  bows  his  head  and  leans  dejectedly  silent 
over  the  table. 

COKESON.  I  feel  for  you — I  do  really.  Aren't  your 
sisters  going  to  do  anything  for  you  ? 

FALDER.  One's  in  consumption.     And  the  other 

COKESON.  Ye  ...  es.  She  told  me  her  husband 
wasn't  quite  pleased  with  you. 

FALDER.  When  I  went  there — they  were  at  supper — 
my  sister  wanted  to  give  me  a  kiss — I  know.  But  he 
just  looked  at  her,  and  said :  "  What  have  you  come  for  ?  " 
Well,  I  pocketed  my  pride  and  I  said:  "Aren't  you  going 
to  give  me  your  hand,  Jim  ?  Cis  is,  I  know,"  I  said. 
"Look  here!"  he  said,  "that's  all  very  well,  but  we'd 
better  come  to  an  understanding.  I've  been  expecting 
you,  and  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I'll  give  you  fifteen 
pounds  to  go  to  Canada  with."  "I  see,"  I  said — "good 
riddance!  No,  thanks;  keep  your  fifteen  pounds." 
Friendship's  a  queer  thing  when  you've  been  where 
I  have. 

COKESON.  I  understand.  Will  you  take  the  fifteen 
pound  from  me?  [Flustered,  as  FALDER  regards  him 
with  a  queer  smile]  Quite  without  prejudice;  I  meant 
it  kindly. 

FALDER.  I'm  not  allowed  to  leave  the  country. 

COKESON.  Oh!  ye  ...  es — ticket-of-leave  ?  You 
aren't  looking  the  thing. 


94  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

FALDER.  I've  slept  in  the  Park  three  nights  this  week. 
The  dawns  aren't  all  poetry  there.  But  meeting  her — I 
feel  a  different  man  this  morning.  I've  often  thought 
the  being  fond  of  her's  the  best  thing  about  me;  it's 
sacred,  somehow — and  yet  it  did  for  me.  That's  queer, 
isn't  it  ? 

COKESON.  I'm  sure  we're  all  very  sorry  for  you. 

FALDER.  That's  what  I've  found,  Mr.  Cokeson. 
Awfully  sorry  for  me.  [With  quiet  bitterness]  But  it 
doesn't  do  to  associate  with  criminals! 

COKESON.  Come,  come,  it's  no  use  calling  yourself 
names.  That  never  did  a  man  any  good.  Put  a 
face  on  it. 

FALDER.  It's  easy  enough  to  put  a  face  on  it,  sir, 
when  you're  independent.  Try  it  when  you're  down 
like  me.  They  talk  about  giving  you  your  deserts. 
Well,  I  think  I've  had  just  a  bit  over. 

COKESON.  [Eyeing  him  askance  over  his  spectacles] 
I  hope  they  haven't  made  a  Socialist  of  you. 

FALDER  is  suddenly  still,  as  if  brooding  over 
his  past  self;  he  utters  a  peculiar  laugh. 

COKESON.  You  must  give  them  credit  for  the  best 
intentions.  Really  you  must.  Nobody  wishes  you 
harm,  I'm  sure. 

FALDER.  I  believe  that,  Mr.  Cokeson.  Nobody 
wishes  you  harm,  but  they  down  you  all  the  same. 

This  feeling [He  stares  round  him,  as  though  at 

something  closing  in]  It's  crushing  me.     [With  sudden 
impersonality]  I  know  it  is. 

COKESON.  [Horribly  disturbed]  There's  nothing  there ! 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  95 

We  must  try  and  take  it  quiet.  I'm  sure  I've  often 
had  you  in  my  prayers.  Now  leave  it  to  me.  I'll  use 
my  gumption  and  take  'em  when  they're  jolly. 

[.4*  he  speaks  the  two  partners  come  in. 

COKESON.  [Rather  disconcerted,  but  trying  to  put 
them  all  at  ease]  I  didn't  expect  you  quite  so  soon.  I've 
just  been  having  a  talk  with  this  young  man.  I  think 
you'll  remember  him. 

JAMES.  [With  a  grave,  keen  look]  Quite  well.  How 
are  you,  Falder  ? 

WALTER.  [Holding  out  his  hand  almost  timidly] 
Very  glad  to  see  you  again,  Falder. 

FALDER.  [Who  has  recovered  his  self-control,  takes 
the  hand]  Thank  you,  sir. 

COKESON.  Just  a  word,  Mr.  James.  [To  FALDER, 
pointing  to  the  clerks'  office]  You  might  go  in  there  a 
minute.  You  know  your  way.  Our  junior  won't  be 
coming  this  morning.  His  wife's  just  had  a  little 
family. 

FALDER  goes  uncertainly  out  into  the  clerks'  office. 

COKESON.  [Confidentially]  I'm  bound  to  tell  you  all 
about  it.  He's  quite  penitent.  But  there's  a  pre- 
judice against  him.  And  you're  not  seeing  him  to 
advantage  this  morning;  he's  under-nourished.  It's 
very  trying  to  go  without  your  dinner. 

JAMES.  Is  that  so,  Cokeson  ? 

COKESON.  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  He's  had  his  lesson. 
Now  we  know  all  about  him,  and  we  want  a  clerk. 
There  is  a  young  fellow  applying,  but  I'm  keeping 
him  in  the  air. 


96  JUSTICE 


ACT   IV 


JAMES.  A  gaol-bird  in  the  office,  Cokeson  ?  I 
don't  see  it. 

.     WALTER.  "The    rolling    of    the    chariot- wheels    of 
Justice!"     I've  never  got  that  out  of  my  head. 

JAMES.  I've  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with  in  this 
affair.  What's  he  been  doing  since  he  came  out? 

COKESON.  He's  had  one  or  two  places,  but  he 
hasn't  kept  them.  He's  sensitive — quite  natural. 
Seems  to  fancy  everybody's  down  on  him. 

JAMES.  Bad  sign.  Don't  like  the  fellow — never  did 
from  the  first.  "Weak  character"  's  written  all  over 
him. 

WALTER.  I  think  we  owe  him  a  leg  up. 

JAMES.  He  brought  it  all  on  himself. 

WALTER.  The  doctrine  of  full  responsibility  doesn't 
quite  hold  in  these  days. 

JAMES.  [Rather  grimly]  You'll  find  it  safer  to  hold 
it  for  all  that,  my  boy. 

WALTER.  For  oneself,  yes — not  for  other  people, 
thanks. 

JAMES.  Well!  I  don't  want  to  be  hard. 

COKESON.  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  He  seems 
to  see  something  [spreading  his  arms]  round  him. 
'Tisn't  healthy. 

JAMES.  What  about  that  woman  he  was  mixed  up 
with  ?  I  saw  some  one  uncommonly  like  her  outside 
as  we  came  in. 

COKESON.  That !  Well,  I  can't  keep  anything  from 
you.  He  has  met  her. 

JAMES.  Is  she  with  her  husband  ? 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  97 

COKESON.    No. 

JAMES.  Falder  living  with  her,  I  suppose  ? 

COKESON.  [Desperately  trying  to  retain  the  new-found 
jollity]  I  don't  know  that  of  my  own  knowledge. 
'Tisn't  my  business. 

JAMES.  It's  our  business,  if  we're  going  to  engage 
him,  Cokeson. 

COKESON.  [Reluctantly]  I  ought  to  tell  you,  perhaps. 
I've  had  the  party  here  this  morning. 

JAMES.  I  thought  so.  [To  WALTER]  No,  my  dear 
boy,  it  won't  do.  Too  shady  altogether! 

COKESON.  The  two  things  together  make  it  very 
awkward  for  you — I  see  that. 

WALTER.  [Tentatively]  I  don't  quite  know  what 
we  have  to  do  with  his  private  life. 

JAMES.  No,  no!  He  must  make  a  clean  sheet  of 
it,  or  he  can't  come  here. 

WALTER.  Poor  devil! 

COKESON.  Will  you  have  him  in?  [And  as  JAMES 
nods]  I  think  I  can  get  him  to  see  reason. 

JAMES.  [Grimly]  You  can  leave  that  to  me,  Cokeson. 

WALTER.  [To  JAMES,  in  a  low  voice,  while  COKESON 
is  summoning  FALDER]  His  whole  future  may  depend 
on  what  we  do,  dad. 

FALDER   comes  in.     He  has  pulled  himself 
together,  and  presents  a  steady  front. 

JAMES.  Now  look  here,  Falder.  My  son  and  I  want 
to  give  you  another  chance;  but  there  are  two  things 
I  must  say  to  you.  In  the  first  place:  It's  no  good 
coming  here  as  a  victim.  If  you've  any  notion  that 


98  JUSTICE 


ACT    IV 


you've  been  unjustly  treated — get  rid  of  it.  You  can't 
play  fast  and  loose  with  morality  and  hope  to  go  scot- 
free.  If  Society  didn't  take  care  of  itself,  nobody 
would — the  sooner  you  realise  that  the  better. 

FALDER.  Yes,  sir;  but — may  I  say  something? 

JAMES.  Well? 

FALDER.  I  had  a  lot  of  time  to  think  it  over  in 
prison.  [He  stops. 

COKESON.  [Encouraging  him]  I'm  sure  you  did. 

FALDER.  There  were  all  sorts  there.  And  what  I 
mean,  sir,  is,  that  if  we'd  been  treated  differently  the  first 
time,  and  put  under  somebody  that  could  look  after  us  a 
bit,  and  not  put  in  prison,  not  a  quarter  of  us  would 
ever  have  got  there. 

JAMES.  [Shaking  his  head]  I'm  afraid  I've  very 
grave  doubts  of  that,  Falder. 

FALDER.  [With  a  gleam  of  malice]  Yes,  sir,  so  I  found. 

JAMES.  My  good  fellow,  don't  forget  that  you  be- 
gan it. 

FALDER.  I  never  wanted  to  do  wrong. 

JAMES.     Perhaps  not.     But  you  did. 

FALDER.  [With  all  the  bitterness  of  his  past  suffering] 
It's  knocked  me  out  of  time.  [Pulling  himself  up] 
That  is,  I  mean,  I'm  not  what  I  was. 

JAMES.  This  isn't  encouraging  for  us,  Falder. 

COKESON.  He's  putting  it  awkwardly,  Mr.  James. 

FALDER.  [Throwing  over  his  caution  from  the  inten- 
sity of  his  feeling]  I  mean  it,  Mr.  Cokeson. 

JAMES.  Now,  lay  aside  all  those  thoughts,  Falder, 
and  look  to  the  future. 


ACT    IV 


JUSTICE  99 


FALDER.  [Almost  eagerly]  Yes,  sir,  but  you  don't 
understand  what  prison  is.  It's  here  it  gets  you. 

He  grips  his  chest. 

COKESON.  [In  a  whisper  to  JAMES]  I  told  you  he 
wanted  nourishment. 

WALTER.  Yes,  but,  my  dear  fellow,  that'll  pass 
away.  Time's  merciful. 

FALDER.  [With  his  face  twitching]  I  hope  so,  sir. 

JAMES.  [Much  more  gently]  Now,  my  boy,  what 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  put  all  the  past  behind  you 
and  build  yourself  up  a  steady  reputation.  And  that 
brings  me  to  the  second  thing.  This  woman  you  were 
mixed  up  with — you  must  give  us  your  word,  you  know, 
to  have  done  with  that.  There's  no  chance  of  your 
keeping  straight  if  you're  going  to  begin  your  future 
with  such  a  relationship. 

FALDER.  [Looking  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  hunted 
expression]  But  sir  ...  but  sir  ...  it's  the  one 
thing  I  looked  forward  to  all  that  time.  And  she 
too  ...  I  couldn't  find  her  before  last  night. 

During  this  and  what  follows  COKESON  be- 
comes more  and  more  uneasy. 

JAMES.  This  is  painful,  Falder.  But  you  must  see 
for  yourself  that  it's  impossible  for  a  firm  like  this  to 
close  its  eyes  to  everything.  Give  us  this  proof  of 
your  resolve  to  keep  straight,  and  you  can  come  back — 
not  otherwise. 

FALDER.  [After  staring  at  JAMES,  suddenly  stiffens 
himself]  I  couldn't  give  her  up.  I  couldn't!  Oh,  sir! 


100  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

I'm  all  she's  got  to  look  to.     And  I'm  sure  she's  all 
I've  got. 

JAMES.  I'm  very  sorry,  Falder,  but  I  must  be  firm. 
It's  for  the  benefit  of  you  both  in  the  long  run.  No 
good  can  come  of  this  connection.  It  was  the  cause 
of  all  your  disaster. 

FALDER.  But  sir,  it  means — having  gone  through 
all  that — getting  broken  up — my  nerves  are  in  an 
awful  state — for  nothing.  I  did  it  for  her. 

JAMES.  Come!  If  she's  anything  of  a  woman 
she'll  see  it  for  herself.  She  won't  want  to  drag  you 
down  further.  If  there  were  a  prospect  of  your  being 
able  to  marry  her — it  might  be  another  thing. 

FALDER.  It's  not  my  fault,  sir,  that  she  couldn't 
get  rid  of  him — she  would  have  if  she  could.  That's 
been  the  whole  trouble  from  the  beginning.  [Looking 
suddenly  at  WALTER]  ...  If  anybody  would  help  her! 
It's  only  money  wanted  now,  I'm  sure. 

COKESON.  [Breaking  in,  as  WALTER  hesitates,  and  is 
about  to  speak]  I  don't  think  we  need  consider  that 
— it's  rather  far-fetched. 

FALDER.  [To  WALTER,  appealing]  He  must  have 
given  her  full  cause  since;  she  could  prove  that  he 
drove  her  to  leave  him. 

WALTER.  I'm  inclined  to  do  what  you  say,  Falder, 
if  it  can  be  managed. 

FALDER.  Oh,  sir  ! 

He  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  down  into  the 
street. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  101 

COKESON.  [Hurriedly]  You  don't  take  me,  Mr. 
Walter.  I,.bave_jny  reasons. 

FALDER.  [From  the  window]  She's  down  there,  sir. 
Will  you  see  her  ?  I  can  beckon  to  her  from  here. 

WALTER  hesitates,  and  looks  from  COKESON  to 

JAMES. 
JAMES.  [With  a  sharp  nod]  Yes,  let  her  come. 

FALDER  beckons  from  the  window. 
COKESON.  [In  a  low  fluster  to  JAMES  and  WALTER] 
No,  Mr.  James.  She's  not  been  quite  what  she 
ought  to  ha'  been,  while  this  young  man's  been  away. 
She's  lost  her  chance.  We  can't  consult  how  to 
swindle  the  Law. 

FALDER  has  come  from  the  window.  The 
three  men  look  at  him  in  a  sort  of  awed 
silence. 

FALDER.  [With  instinctive  apprehension  of  some 
change — looking  from  one  to  the  other]  There's  been 
nothing  between  us,  sir,  to  prevent  it.  ...  What  I 
said  at  the  trial  was  true.  And  last  night  we  only 
just  sat  in  the  Park. 

SWEEDLE  comes  in  from  the  outer  office. 
COKESON.  What  is  it? 

SWEEDLE.  Mrs.  Honey  will.  [There  is  silence. 

JAMES.  Show  her  in. 

RUTH  comes  slowly  in,  and  stands  stoically 
with  FALDER  on  one  side  and  the  three 
men  on  the  other.  No  one  speaks.  COKE- 
SON  turns  to  his  table,  bending  over  his 


102  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

papers  as  though  the  burden  of  the  situation 
were  forcing  him  back  into  his  accustomed 
groove. 

JAMES.  [Sharply]  Shut  the  door  there.     [SWEEDLE 
shuts  the  door]  We've  asked  you  to  come  up  because 
there  are  certain  facts  to  be  faced  in  this  matter.     I 
understand  you  have  only  just  met  Falder  again. 
RUTH.  Yes — only  yesterday. 

JAMES.  He's  told  us  about  himself,  and  we're  very 
sorry  for  him.  I've  promised  to  take  him  back  here 
if  he'll  make  a  fresh  start.  [Looking  steadily  at  RUTH] 
This  is  a  matter  that  requires  courage,  ma'am. 

RUTH,  who  is  looking  at  FALDER,  begins  to 
twist  her  hands  in  front  of  her  as  though 
prescient  of  disaster. 

FALDER.  Mr.  Walter  How  is  good  enough  to  say 
that  he'll  help  us  to  get  you  a  divorce. 

RUTH  flashes  a  startled  glance  at  JAMES  and 

WALTER. 
JAMES.  I  don't  think  that's  practicable,  Falder. 

FALDER.  But,  sir ! 

JAMES.  [Steadily]  Now,  Mrs.  Honeywill.  You're 
fond  of  him. 

RUTH.  Yes,  sir;  I  love  him. 

She  looks  miserably  at  FALDER. 
JAMES.  Then  you  don't  want  to  stand  in  his  way, 
do  you  ? 

RUTH.  [In  a  faint  voice]  I  could  take  care  of  him. 
JAMES.  The  best  way  you  can  take  care  of  him  will 
be  to  give  him  up. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  103 

FALDER.  Nothing  shall  make  me  give  you  up. 
You  can  get  a  divorce.  There's  been  nothing  between 
us,  has  there  ? 

RUTH.  [Mournfully  shaking  her  head — without  look- 
ing at  him]  No. 

FALDER.  We'll  keep  apart  till  it's  over,  sir;  if  you'll 
only  help  us — we  promise. 

JAMES.  [To  RUTH]  You  see  the  thing  plainly, 
don't  you  ?  You  see  what  I  mean  ? 

RUTH.  [Just  above  a  whisper]  Yes. 

COKESON.  [To  himself]  There's  a  dear  woman. 

JAMES.  The  situation  is  impossible. 

RUTH.  Must  I,  sir  ? 

JAMES.  [Forcing  himself  to  look  at  her]  I  put  it  to 
you,  ma'am.  His  future  is  in  your  hands. 

RUTH.  [Miserably]  I  want  to  do  the  best  for  him. 

JAMES.  [A  little  huskily]  That's  right,  that's 
right! 

FALDER.  I  don't  understand.     You're  not  going  to 
give  me  up — after  all  this  ?     There's  something — 
[Starting   forward  to   JAMES]  Sir,    I    swear    solemnly 
there's  been  nothing  between  us. 

JAMES.  I  believe  you,  Falder.  Come,  my  lad,  be 
as  plucky  as  she  is. 

FALDER.  Just  now  you  were  going  to  help  us.  [He 
stares  at  RUTH,  who  is  standing  absolutely  still;  his  face 
and  hands  twitch  and  quiver  as  the  truth  dawns  on  him] 
What  is  it  ?  You've  not  been 

WALTER.  Father! 

JAMES.  [Hurriedly]  There,  there!    That'll  do,  that'll 


104  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

do !     I'll  give  you  your  chance,  Falder.     Don't  let  me 
know  what  you  do  with  yourselves,  that's  all. 
FALDER.  [As  if  he  has  not  heard]  Ruth  ? 

RUTH  looks  at  him;  and  FALDER  covers  his  face 

with  his  hands.     There  is  silence. 
COKESON.  [Suddenly]  There's  some  one  out  there. 
[To  RUTH]  Go  in  here.     You'll  feel  better  by  yourself 
for  a  minute. 

He  points  to  the  clerks'  room  and  moves  tow- 
ards the  outer  office.     FALDER  does  not  move. 
RUTH    puts   out   her   hand   timidly.      He 
shrinks   back   from  the  touch.      She  turns 
and  goes  miserably   into   the  clerks'  room. 
With  a  brusque  movement  he  follows,  seiz- 
ing her  by  the  shoulder  just  inside  the  door- 
way.    COKESON  shuts  the  door. 
JAMES.  [Pointing  to  the  outer  office]  Get  rid  of  that, 
whoever  it  is. 

SWEEDLE.  [Opening  the  office  door,  in  a  scared  voice] 
Detective-Sergeant  Wister. 

The  detective  enters,  and  closes  the  door  behind 

him. 

WISTER.  Sorry  to  disturb  you,  sir.  A  clerk  you 
had  here,  two  years  and  a  half  ago.  I  arrested  him 
in  this  room. 

JAMES.  What  about  him  ? 

WISTER.  I  thought  perhaps  I  might  get  his  where- 
abouts from  you.  [There  is  an  awkward  silence. 
COKESON.  [Pleasantly,  coming  to  the  rescue]  We're 
not  responsible  for  his  movements;  you  know  that. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  105 

JAMES.  What  do  you  want  with  him  ? 

WISTER.  He's  failed  to  report  himself  this  last  four 
weeks. 

WALTER.  How  d'you  mean  ? 

WISTER.  Ticket-of-leave  won't  be  up  for  another 
six  months,  sir. 

WALTER.  Has  he  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  police 
till  then  ? 

WISTER.  We're  bound  to  know  where  he  sleeps 
every  night.  I  dare  say  we  shouldn't  interfere,  sir, 
even  though  he  hasn't  reported  himself.  But  we've 
just  heard  there's  a  serious  matter  of  obtaining  em- 
ployment with  a  forged  reference.  What  with  the 
two  things  together — we  must  have  him. 

Again  there  is  silence.  WALTER  and  COKESON 
steal  glances  at  JAMES,  who  stands  staring 
steadily  at  the  detective. 

COKESON.  [Expansively]  We're  very  busy  at  the 
moment.  If  you  could  make  it  convenient  to  call 
again  we  might  be  able  to  tell  you  then. 

JAMES.  [Decisively]  I'm  a  servant  of  the  Law,  but 
I  dislike  peaching.  In  fact,  I  can't  do  such  a  thing. 
If  you  want  him  you  must  find  him  without  us. 

As  he  speaks  his  eye  falls  on  FALDER'S  cap, 
still  lying  on  the  table,  and  his  face  contracts. 

WISTER.  [Noting  the  gesture — quietly]  Very  good, 
sir.  I  ought  to  warn  you  that,  having  broken  the 
terms  of  his  licence,  he's  still  a  convict,  and  sheltering 
a  convict 


106  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

JAMES.  I  shelter  no  one.  But  you  mustn't  come 
here  and  ask  questions  which  it's  not  my  business  to 
answer. 

WISTER.  [Dryly]  I  won't  trouble  you  further  then, 
gentlemen. 

COKESON.  I'm  sorry  we  couldn't  give  you  the 
information.  You  quite  understand,  don't  you  ? 
Good-morning ! 

WISTER  turns  to  go,  but  instead  of  going  to 
the  door  of  the  outer  office  he  goes  to  the 
door  of  the  clerks'  room. 

COKESON.  The  other  door  .  .  .  the  other  door! 

WISTER  opens  the  clerks'  door.  RUTH'S  voice 
is  heard:  "Oh,  do!"  and  FALDER'S:  "/ 
can't!"  There  is  a  little  pause;  then,  with 
sharp  fright,  RUTH  says:  "Who's  that?" 
WISTER  has  gone  in. 

The  three  men  look  aghast  at  the  door. 
WISTER.  [From  within]  Keep  back,  please! 

He  comes  swiftly  out  with  his  arm  twisted 
in  FALDER'S.  The  latter  gives  a  white, 
staring  look  at  the  three  men. 

WALTER.  Let  him  go  this  time,  for  God's  sake! 
WISTER.  I  couldn't  take  the  responsibility,  sir. 
FALDER.  [With  a  queer,  desperate  laugh]  Good! 

Flinging  a  look  back  at  RUTH,  he  throws  up  his 
head,  and  goes  out  through  the  outer  office, 
half  dragging  WISTER  after  him. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  107 

WALTER.  [With    despair]  That    finishes    him.     It'll 
go  on  for  ever  now. 

SWEEDLE   can   be   seen   staring   through   the 

outer  door.     There  are  sounds  of  footsteps 

descending  the  stone  stairs;  suddenly  a  dull 

thud,  a  faint  "My  God!"  in  WISTER'S  voice. 

JAMES.  What's  that  ? 

SWEEDLE  dashes  forward.     The  door  swings 

to  behind  him.     There  is  dead  silence. 
WALTER.  [Starting  forward  to  the  inner  room]  The 
woman — she's  fainting! 

He  and  COKESON  support  the  fainting  RUTH 

from  the  doorway  of  the  clerks'  room. 
COKESON.  [Distracted]  Here,  my  dear!    There,  there! 
WALTER.  Have  you  any  brandy  ? 
COKESON.  I've  got  sherry. 
WALTER.  Get  it,  then.     Quick! 

He  places  RUTH  in  a  chair — which  JAMES  has 

dragged  forward. 

COKESON.  [With    sherry]  Here!     It's    good    strong 

sherry.     [They  try  to  force  the  sherry  between  her  lips. 

There  is  the  sound  of  feet,  and  they  siop  to 

listen. 

The  outer  door  is  reopened — WISTER  and 
SWEEDLE  are  seen  carrying  some  burden. 

JAMES.  [Hurrying  forward]  What  is  it  ? 

They  lay  the  burden  down  in  the  outer  office, 
out  of  sight,  and  all  but  RUTH  cluster  round 
it,  speaking  in  hushed  voices. 


108  JUSTICE  ACT  iv 

WISTER.  He  jumped — neck's  broken. 
WALTER.  Good  God! 

WISTER.  He  must  have  been  mad  to  think  he  could 
give  me  the  slip  like  that.  And  what  was  it — just  a 
few  months! 

WALTER.  [Bitterly]  Was  that  all? 
JAMES.  What  a  desperate  thing!  [Then,  in  a  voice 
unlike  his  own]   Run  for  a  doctor — you!    [SWEEDLE 
rushes  from  the  outeroffice]    An  ambulance! 
WISTER  goes  out.     On  RUTH'S  face  an  expres- 
sion of  fear  and  horror  has  been  seen  grow- 
ing, as  if  she  dared  not  turn  towards  the 
voices.     She  now  rises  and  steals  towards 
them. 

WALTER.  [Turning  suddenly]  Look! 

The  three  men  shrink  back  out  of  her  way,  one 
by  one,  into  COKESON'S  room.  RUTH  drops 
on  her  knees  by  the  body. 

RUTH.  [In  a  whisper]  What  is  it  ?    He's  not  breath- 
ing.    [She  crouches  over  him]  My  dear!    My  pretty! 
In  the  outer  office  doorway  the  figures  of  men 

are  seen  standing. 

RUTH.  [Leaping  to  her  feet]  No,  no!  No,  no!  He's 
dead!  [The  figures  of  the  men  shrink  back. 

COKESON.  [Stealing  forward.  In  a  hoarse  voice] 
There,  there,  poor  dear  woman! 

At  the  sound  behind  her  RUTH  faces  round  at 
him. 


ACT  iv  JUSTICE  109 

COKESON.  No  one'll  touch  him  now!    Never  again!       / 
He's  safe  with  gentle  Jesus! 

RUTH  stands  as  though  turned  to  stone  in  the 
doorway  staring  at  COKESON,  who,  bending 
humbly  before  her,  holds  out  his  hand  as  one 
would  to  a  lost  dog. 

The  curtain  Jails. 


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